


Cruel

by ThatWhichWrites



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dark Strike Commander, F/M, Hand Kink, Intimidation, Jealousy, Manipulation, Multi, Open requests, Possesive, Reader-Insert, Sadism, Slow Burn, Suspense, Threatening, Violence, Voice Kink, abusive, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-04 08:05:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10986870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWhichWrites/pseuds/ThatWhichWrites
Summary: A Dark!Jack Morrison x Reader story with open requests/input from readers.You've recently joined Overwatch as a new recruit. Naive and excited, you set to work earnestly to impress your superiors. Although the more time you spend with the heroes of the Overwatch, the less heroic and human they seem. Even worse, your attitude's caught the eye of the Strike Commander...





	1. The Strike Commander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello- I am that which writes. It has been awhile since I published anything anywhere. So, I hope you enjoy my re-debut back with this self-indulgent overly verbose and slow building story.

In this world there exists at least two very distinct types of “Scary”. The first is obvious when observed. Purposefully conspicuous, in fact. The face is often kept in a scowl. The eyes will glare. Bared teeth will part only to expel harsh words in tones and volumes which strain the vocal chords. A very simple “scary”. Perfectly straightforward and understandable on a basic level.

  
Stay away. Do not touch. Danger. Like spikes erupting from skin it often serves as a deterrent or a warning. Underneath it however, there is at least something warm and fleshy akin to that of a heart. Should one brush off the thorns and ignore the occasional bites, one may find a relatively serviceable human beneath. On occasion, at least.

  
The second is much more insidious. It will not jump out with hackles raised and barking. No. Like a snake without a rattle, you may never notice it in the grass. No, not until you’ve stepped on it. Angered it. Only then may it reveal itself in inches. Brief flickers of danger, of shining scales in the grass.

  
The second is quiet and patient. It coils around you, seemingly inviting and warm. You trust it almost blindly. Everyone does. This particular creature has kind eyes and a soft, reassuring voice. Wonderful words keep you close and docile. In the moment just preceding the strike, you may see it briefly in it’s eyes- the cruelty. But it is far too late then. You are lost.

 

 

My dear one, do not go offering your heart to these two wretched things. Guard yourself from their whims and stray not into their eyes. Therein lies suffering. But alas, your own heart is quite soothing. It’s casing having a certain pleasantness to look at and to touch. Very covetable.

 

Very dangerous.

__

The Strike Commander

 

You had made it. After a long and twisted road, you wound up in the so called Hero Factory. You were accepted as a new recruit in the Overwatch. At this moment, you stood shoulder to shoulder with a dozen or so others in new blue uniforms. Pride puffed up your chest. You fought to get here. You clawed yourself out of the wreckage of the War and over countless pitfalls just to stand here. This empty aircraft hangar was not enough to contain your joy.

  
You are younger than the others, but conflict and stress made you resilient. You had fought with no training before. Trial by fire, as it were. You defended what was left of your home. But then you got restless and ended up wandering. You had fallen into little armies and homemade militias. Learned a few things and got the shit kicked out of you. You moved on again. Heard about “Heroes” this and “Saving” that. Overwatch seemed to have a very noble and defined purpose. You wanted that.

  
Now you have it.

  
As a new recruit you were now formally part of the Overwatch. Well, perhaps new recruit is disingenuous. One can not simply enlist as they can in the armies. There’s a whole system that screens millions of would-be heroes without them ever knowing. You knew though. As much as you’d like to claim you figured out how to game the system you simply managed to befriend someone on the inside.

  
You joined one of the correct government sanctioned mercenary groups. You displayed potential on the right days in front of the right people. You had staged conversations conveniently in earshot of seemingly benign people that showed your just sense of morality and courage. Perhaps a bit manufactured- but hey, whatever works. You were selected, then tested, and now chosen.

  
A tall blonde man with broad shoulders was pacing up and down the rows. Earlier, he had spent a good half hour speaking at length in front of innumerable cameras and microphones. All of you had stood behind him on a stage with your arms behind your back. He gave fantastic and inspiring speeches. By all accounts he was the real deal. A bonafide hero. The kind of man made immortal in statue and legacy.  
Now though, he was quiet. He wasn’t quite smiling but didn’t appear overly displeased. He was examining all of you. Much like show cattle. You felt his eyes on you. Just for a second. Then he passed your row. It made your heart flutter. You listened to his heavy, even footfalls plod his way around the lot of you. You kept your head fixed forward.

  
You could hear more footsteps echoing somewhere off to your right. A few people. Different gaits, no rush. Slight chatter. At least one pair of high heels, you thought. Your superiors for sure.  
A woman’s slightly accented voice rang out, “Are they ready, Morrison?” Might be German, maybe Swiss. You weren’t cultured enough to know which.

  
Commander Morrison stopped and said something inaudible. Footsteps behind you. Papers rustling slightly. Another man explained you were to be sectioned off according to your specialties. One group was focused on area denial and entrenching for defenses. They left the room with that man. A different woman spoke and took the big bruisers of the group. The woman who had first spoken called the medics who then dutifully marched out of the room behind her. There were now four of you standing there with the Commander.

  
He held a clipboard and flipped through it, “Alright. Vanta- close combat specialist.”

  
The woman next to you spoke, “Present, Sir!”

  
He checked something off. “Pierson- dueling...expert?” It sounded like the Commander didn’t quite know what that meant. You didn’t either. The man next to you sounded off regardless.  
You jumped when your named was called, “...Heavy weapons expert.”

  
“Present, Sir.”

  
You spoke just a bit quieter than the others had. Enough that his eyes flicked up from the paper to observe your face. Only for a moment. The last name was called, another man. Mid range weapons or something. You had a strange inkling these people wouldn’t make it. You had nothing to base it on, of course. There was just a gut feeling. Though it may have been about yourself. Perhaps it was you who wouldn’t make it. You shook your head free of the thought and stood up taller.

 

The rest of the day was uneventful. You’d been introduced to each other and your new digs. You were relieved you had your own rooms. Shitty, closet sized rooms, but yours nonetheless. There was room for a bed and about half a desk in the corner. Your stuff had been delivered already. A holo message blinked over the desk.

  
Commander Morrison to Group A- Meet at 0400 in Practice Range 3

  
A few hours to rest then. You curled up on the bed, peeling your shoes off by the heel with your toes. You were in Overwatch. That man was Jack Morrison. The one woman had clearly been the esteemed Dr. Zeigler. You were here. With them.

  
The realization of where you were and what that meant was hitting in waves. Nauseating, shiver inducing waves. You recognized this feeling. Briefly. The adrenaline of the day had worn off and this was what’s always left. You often felt this after firefights and arguments.

  
You closed your eyes to sleep. Perhaps after resting the joy would return.

 

__

 

The next several weeks were tough. Running miles every morning and then heavy training. Practice with tracking targets and predicting their movements. You’ve always found shooting at something that isn’t aware of you is the worst. The advanced training bots were no exception. Although there was something endearing in their simulated gasps and screams. You felt a little bad “killing” them.

  
You weren’t particularly good with the wimpy pistols they’d supplied. You wanted to use your gun. The big gun. The big Frankenstein's monster of metal that’s been your companion for the last six years of your life. Hand cannon didn’t begin to describe it. It was like someone bred a flak cannon and rifle. Then they gave it semi automatic fire because they were crazy.

  
It was big, loud, unwieldy, wholly unnecessary, and by far the favorite thing you have ever owned. Today was finally the day you got to use it. It was also the first day Commander Morrison was going to be overseeing you specifically. Evaluation, they called it.

  
Exciting. You were almost giddy as you unpacked your Good Friend. As you prepared, you allowed yourself an indulgent daydream. One day, your Good Friend would be in a museum next to your portrait. People would stand around and admire it. They’d talk about you like some inhuman superhero. They’d imagine how your little frame could cart such a weapon.

  
The Commander stood near the wall behind you. He was tapping away on his phone. You glanced back as you readied yourself, unsure if you could interrupt. You had a fine chance here, you mused, to take in that face. Handsome. Of course he was. What kind of hero isn’t handsome?

  
Well built too. Not bulky, not scrawny, but that perfect balance between them. Morrison walked roughly in your direction without looking up.

  
“Aim.”

  
You turned and aimed toward the target. The smallest yellow dot in the center was probably hard to hit. Truth be told, you weren’t accurate so much as you were thorough. Thorough, of course, meaning if you shot big enough bullets you’d end up hitting the right thing eventually and then some.

  
“Fire.”

  
The recoil was painful. GF knocked against your ribs and you grunted in pain. Not an unfamiliar sensation. You hit the target. Half of it was gone. New targets flooded the range. Some of them moving, some smaller, and others larger. At Morrison’s command you did your best to destroy everything.

The outcome was favorable. To you. You hit mostly everything. What you did hit usually broke off half the target, often missing the center dot, though. The small things you missed entirely. There were quite large dents in the concrete walls at least. You turned to the man in blue next you, beaming.

  
“Impressive,” his arms were folded over his chest.

  
You stood up straighter, feeling your chest swell with pride.

  
“I don’t think we’ve ever had a recruit make it this far with such sloppy aim and clumsy weapon handling,” he wasn’t smiling.

  
You practically deflated.

  
A soft “Oh…” left your lips. You lowered GF.

  
Your Commander was staring at you now. Not quite fully frowning but the edges of his lips were drawn down. Under the scrutiny your face began to feel hot. He didn’t say anything for a long, painful minute. During which you visibly wilted under his unwavering gaze.

  
Finally, he spoke of particular training regimes and schedules then sent you off. As you shuffled out of the room you thought briefly of the others. Were they having the same treatment? The bars for Overwatch were high. They had to be. You were naive to think that it would be so simple to impress them. Mentally, you reprimanded yourself.

 

__

Before you knew it, four months passed. Underneath your soft padding was finely trained muscle. Your synapses buzzed with new stratagems and tactics. Your fingers were quicker and eyes sharper. You had undeniably improved. But, not enough.

  
Each month you had an evaluation with Morrison. Each month he didn’t smile. He only seemed to stare you down, looking bored and unimpressed. It seemed strange how cold he was. Long before you joined Overwatch you had seen him on TV. The difference was striking. You would have sworn his statue was warmer and more human than the man himself.

  
Out of the limelight and off the stage, he wasn’t the same inspiring figure of righteousness and hope. He was still imposing, but perhaps only that. It was strange to you. You had seen him in the hallways conversing with Dr. Zeigler, Commander Reyes, and others. Then he seemed...friendly? No that wasn’t quite the right word. Dr. Zeigler always looked tired, her smile often sarcastic, bordering on sardonic. You overheard many a snippet of conversation betwixt the two. There was camaraderie there but not quite true friendship.

  
Commander Reyes was in charge of the Blackwatch. He fit the Blackwatch image to a T. Many things amused him, chief among them being setbacks suffered by Morrison. He usually smirked. Often smoked. He spoke to everyone the same. Sarcastically and rude. Funny guy though. A biting wit, one might say.

  
There was a dynamic between Reyes and Morrison that was fascinating to watch. The thinly veiled insults. The slight snarl they had when addressing each other. The odd push and pull in their conversations. You honestly weren’t sure if they were best friends or mortal enemies.

  
Speaking of mortal- it was evaluation day. You felt rather mortal yourself. Once more, if you didn’t meet Morrison’s expectations this time, whatever it was that they were, you were certain it’d rend you a mortal wound.

  
Your aim had improved. You were far from the best, but you hit your targets dead center...most of the time. You didn’t totally miss any targets in this run through, but it seemed to cost you accuracy. You could feel it. The disapproving eyes on your back. You grit your teeth as the demolished targets wound their way back through the tracks in the floor. Bits of training bots littered the ground, their sad little eyes blinking the last ounce of “life” out. Frustrating. Very frustrating.

  
You turned toward your commander. He absently marked something down on a clipboard.

  
“You have such limited use,” he muttered, not looking up.

  
Limited use? You were damn resourceful! If he’d just let you go out into a real environment you could prove it! There were drastic differences between this safe little concrete hole and actual battlefields. You knew it. You had real experience out there in the field! If he’d just let you…

  
“At this point,” he still didn’t bother looking at you, “Keeping you here is more costly as a damage dealer. If we move you to lower administration maybe…” you weren’t worth looking at, “with this year’s funds then…” He was entirely lost in his own thoughts.

  
Your frustration manifested itself as tension in your back and arms. You ground your teeth. Then, you did something stupid.

  
“Sir, I’m infinitely more capable than you think! A test like this a joke-” you were speaking out of turn, “How can you tell what use I have in here? I should be sent on a mission already!”

  
He was looking at you. Looking down on your petulant little face.

  
“I fought in Santa Fe!” Whole city decimated back then. Burning for days. “Then Cairo, and then-” you stopped yourself, but only for a moment, “I- I should be in field. Not here. You’ll never see what I can do in here!”

  
At the mention of the field, Jack Morrison imaged the chaos of battle. The adrenaline of chasing down a target and of being chased down. Such desperate and fantastic violence. Very heroic stuff, once some of the truth is cleaned away. His eyes were unwavering. You could feel the pressure of his presence bearing down on you.

  
“Really?” he asked. His lips twisted in a slight smirk.

  
Was he trying to intimidate you? Or were you just so terribly nervous? He was two feet away and you both stood in the center of a rather open room. Yet, you felt like you were backed into the corner of a wall.

  
“Yes! Really!” You sounded as confident as you could. If he was doing this on purpose then you wouldn’t let it get to you! He wasn’t so scary. Stupid pretty boy windbag. Bet all he could do was look nice for the cameras. You bet he had never done half the things people praised him for. Overwatch’s super soldier? Hah!

  
“Alright,” he said.

  
Your resolute face faltered for a second. You expected more...resistance. Or a reprimand. His lips pulled back into a big smile. A shiver worked its way up your spine and spread over your back. You willed yourself to keep eye contact with him. The blue of his eyes was like deep water. One was liable to drown if they weren’t careful.

  
“You think you’re ready for a mission? I can arrange that,” he was picturing you bleeding and broken, “In fact, there’s something important coming up soon,” he imagined how the bruises would turn your proud, pretty face submissive and purple, “Next week actually.”

  
You weren’t sure what to say. Your mouth parted slightly but you stayed quiet. During your little outburst you’d stood almost on tiptoe and leaned toward him. It was what little you could do to counter his stature with yours. Now though, you almost fell back. Very nearly collapsed in on yourself. But you willed your body to stand firm. You would not let yourself be scared of this man.

“I’ll be counting on you, Agent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've got the Commander's attention! Oh my dear, what shall you do?  
> \---  
> I hope you'll stick around to see this story out. The Dark!Morrison stories have really pulled me back into writing fics. I encourage you to tell me your wishes, your plans, your dark desires, as this story is meant to be shaped a bit by the readers. While this is a linear story, I am open to incorporating requests and the like. Tags will be updated as needed.  
> And should this story seem familiar by some slight chance- it's crossposted on tumblr. Requests from either here or there will be considered. 
> 
> Farewell, until the next.


	2. Catching the Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad people are liking this. It's reminding me why I liked writing in the first place. Rest assured the requests shall be worked in! I just need to get everything in the right place story-wise!  also this chapter is maybe kind of too long i am so sorry
> 
> Please enjoy.

There is some merit in wearing one’s heart on their sleeve. It is often an endearing feature. One that can also attract like-minded souls easily. Forming quick but strong bonds. Ah, but this is dangerous too. There are creatures in this world whose only pleasure is the calculated pricking and picking at another’s heart. To see the poor thing bleed and break down amuses them. To tear at it until all chambers of it are laid bare. It is but a game to them. A game which only ends when the heart finally stills and rots. 

My dear one, you may not know these creatures right away. These are monsters in the guise of people. They take on human names and clothe themselves in real human flesh. You will only know them when they hurt you first. They may bite upon meeting you. Or they may wait. They may pantomime friendship and cover their jabs at your heart in smooth words and false kindnesses. Upon realizing their betrayal, you might be tempted to guard your heart. To enshroud it in stone and ice so that none may touch or see it. 

You must resist this, my most dear one. For turning flesh to stone is merely another victory for them. A stone heart does not beat. It stays numb and cold. When it inevitably cracks and shatters, it will not knit itself back together over time. Rather than a shield, you instead make a monument to your monsters. This will please them, of course. At least as much as monsters can feel pleased . 

Ah, you ask me then what should you do? Do you do battle with them? Tear apart their ribs and search for that which you display so proudly yourself? Admittedly, I do not have a good answer. I can only tell you that it is preferable to avoid them. You can not fix monsters. You can not make them love you. You can not find the humanity inside them that they never had. 

My dear one… My pleas to you fall on deaf ears. I see you are readying yourself to climb into the lion’s mouth. As if you can sit in such a way to avoid being crushed by the fangs once it closes. I know that you are hopeful and resilient but-

Do you really think this will have a happy ending?

2 || Catching the Eye 

You had gotten your wish. A mission to prove your worth. To prove him wrong. Yet you felt uneasy. You weren’t sure if it was performance anxiety or the odd atmosphere that you now found yourself living in. You reasoned it could be both. Or at least one was causing the other. 

You sat in the back of a small room made of white metallic paneling surrounded by boxes and a single, unsturdy metal table. An equipment room. You would be shipping out later to… somewhere. Between the uneasiness of the staff around you and your own worries, you had begun to doubt your position at Overwatch. It didn’t help that everything seemed to be on a strict need-to-know-only basis. Well, you hadn’t expected to be given top secret information. But surely some small talk and a name from your new coworkers wasn’t asking too much? 

The only ones not cold toward you had been the other new recruits. In hushed tones at night in the halls outside your quarters you all traded worries and reassurances. There were some rumors too. From what you could piece together this air of unease had settled over the whole of Overwatch in the past few months. A number of people in the higher administrative positions had disappeared. Yet, no one was moved in to take their place. Nor was there to be any investigation of them. On top of that, there was a mention of open hostility between various leaders and the like.

You weren’t sure but it appeared an awful lot like Overwatch was currently fractured into different factions. Each one keeping secrets from the other. You and the new recruits being a sort of de-facto faction separate from the rest. The irritating thing about it was how all of it was very vague. No one was quite sure if what they’d overheard or surmised was actually correct. Perhaps it was all just nerves- as new recruits you were all undoubtedly nervous and out of your respective elements. 

You’d managed to put these worries out of your mind until after your last evaluation. Once you’d been given the clear to start interacting with active Overwatch agents and their staff you understood why the other recruits were concerned. People did act uncomfortable and paranoid around each other. Small comments about this commander or that squad leader always hinted at some bigger conflict brewing. 

It was troublesome. The thoughts weighed heavy on your mind. Even as you started to prepare in earnest for your first foray into the field you could not wipe the frown from your face. You put another small biotic generator into your pack. Then another. And another. You didn’t even realize how many you’d been mindless packing until a sweet but tired voice spoke, “You put any more in and you won’t room for much else.”

Your head snapped up and you blinked stupidly a few times before replying, “Ah-! Oh, I um... “ you quickly set the one in your hands down. “Pardon, ma’am!” 

Dr. Zeigler, known to many as Mercy, stood just inside the door across from you. She looked so tired. Her eyes were dull and drooping slightly; the bags beneath them hardly hidden by the sloppily applied concealer she was wearing. She walked toward the table and inspected your horde of biotic generators. You stood quickly, suddenly aware of her position as your superior. 

“Are you that worried about injuries? You’ll have the support of your team you know,” her voice was quiet but reassuring, “You don’t need to pack as if you’ll be going alone.” 

“Um- right! Right…” That was right, wasn’t it? Overwatch sent out teams of three to six usually. You were often used to acting alone or rather independently of your team. But that wouldn’t work here, would it? 

Dr. Zeigler began to remove some of the generators from your pack. She spoke with the tone of a parent sending their stubborn child off to school, “ You do not need to worry. Cao will be going with you. He’s new, like you of course, but he’s very dependable. If you’re in need of medical attention, he’ll take care of you.” 

“R-right,” you weren’t sure if you were being scolded or comforted. 

“You just worry about fulfilling your role. Protect Cao and whoever else goes with him. They’ll keep you alive. Move with your team and don’t get worked up trying to…” she stopped unpacking your things for a moment, “Trying to carry them by yourself. You are all very capable, on your own. But together as a unit you should be near unstoppable.” 

You nodded vigorously. You hadn’t meant to give off the vibe that you were some kind of self-important prick who who was going to go in recklessly and act like the only hero. The doctor smiled at you and asked your name. You told her quietly. Then awkwardly added in how it was an honor to meet her. 

She laughed and seemed to brighten. “Well,” she repeated your name with a genuine smile, “I’m glad to meet you as well. I don’t often get to see the new recruits until something has...happened to them and they need my assistance.”

You forced a small chuckle, “So it goes, eh?” 

“Should you need anything,” she turned away, “I’m here to help. Please, do not hesitate.” 

You nodded even though she couldn’t see it. You managed to squeak out a quick, “Right! Thank you!” as you watched her head toward the door. You had a fraction of a second to process your thought and then decide to speak without making some offensive insinuation. “ Dr. Zeigler? H-has something happened here? It’s seems...um,” your words, though incomplete, seemed to hang taught in the air. 

The blonde woman stopped and put her hand on the door frame. Without glancing back, “Overwatch is currently facing some...issues.” she mentioned calmly, “It is nothing serious. Please, do not let it give you the wrong impression about this place,” she looked over her shoulder and seemed to be smiling. “Things should settle down soon.” 

Though she smiled, you noted that the eyes and brow conveyed a different sentiment. Concern. Worry. Stress. Your face contorted to reflect them back. 

 

\--

The sun wouldn’t be up for another three hours. Yet you dressed and gathered your gear all the same. Following a few others who appeared to know where to go, you eventually climbed into a large, fat aircraft. Some, including yourself, wore a bright blue cadets’ uniform. At least three wore typical clothes albeit with some battle necessary modifications. 

Those in blue introduced themselves and laughed. Some yawned. None complained. You heard the heavy sound of footsteps on metal through the chatter. You wormed your way out of the group toward the huge open door and narrowly collided with the Strike Commander himself. 

He looked down at you briefly, lip curling slightly in annoyance. The expression was gone in a second though. At once, he barked orders to take seats and get ready to move. The blues scattered quickly and found several seats to claim. The ones in plain clothes stood around talking amongst themselves. You were briefed a few days ago and the Commander took a few minutes to summarise. It wasn’t terribly interesting. An escort mission in some backwater town. Easy enough, right? No special circumstances or warnings. Honestly you thought six+ people would be overkill. 

The aircraft hummed to life and with a hydraulic hiss the large door shut. The seats weren’t terribly secure and you braced yourself with your feet against the floor. The rumbling machine shook as it ascended. You clutched your Good Friend to you, wondering if bringing it was even needed. Your pack of clothes and equipment was nestled between your feet. With a sudden pang you realized you’d forgotten the biotic generator you’d meant to bring. After meeting Dr. Zeigler you’d unpacked everything to start over. In doing so, you ran out of room for even a single generator. You’d meant to put one in your pack of clothes before you left. 

The Strike Commander was apparently coming with you all. He checked on things in the cockpit and then in the back with the plainclothes. Did the Commander do run of the mill missions with new recruits? Or was he simply going somewhere nearby by making use of the aircraft? You weren’t sure, but you were indeed very curious. You watched him pace back and forth while on the phone. In your mind you reviewed a few different approaches to ask him about it. All of them ended in awkward failure. 

With a resigned huff, you gave up and leaned back. Some of the blues had joined a plain clothes in a game of...basketball? You marvelled at just how spacious the ships were. The ship tilted to one side, causing a player to stumble and miss their throw. The group erupted in laughter. A few others were like you and simply watched. At least one appeared sleeping. 

You didn’t realize someone had sat beside you until you felt the cushion sink down. You turned your head and shrank back for a second. The Strike Commander smiled back easily. 

“Sir!” you were startled and a little pleased. Any misgivings you might have had were forgotten. He was like a superhero. And here he was sitting next to you. 

He gave you a small nod, “So, going to prove to me what you can do?” You couldn’t have known at the time what that smile really meant. “I’m looking forward to it.”

He watched you puff up with pride and determination. He could tell you wanted to impress. He knew you looked at him with some awe and were rather giddy in his presence. Most people were. You alone weren’t enough to stroke his ego but the continued affirmation of who he was pleased him. 

Your words were nervous and stunted. “I’ll do my best sir,” and then a “You’ll see.” Though in the back of your head you doubted this assignment was going to show off any of your strengths. 

The Strike Commander left you without much of a word and sequestered himself in the cockpit.When you dared peek through the huge doorway you could see a blue tinted light flickering against the wall. He must be on his computer. No doubt working tirelessly. 

You felt a little shaken. You’d met with him a few times for evaluation but he never paid much attention to you, only your performance. But just now he’d come over to address you and seemed to expect you to impress him. You vowed that you would. You would excel no matter how small this task was. You wanted Strike Commander Morrison to notice you and remember your face. 

It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know any better. 

\--

A dark woman about your height approached you. You smiled invitingly and she sat next you with her bags. You recognized her as Vanta. Something about the name stuck in your mind.

She introduced herself, though you all had exchanged names before, “People call me Vanta Black,” you shook hands. That name… Yes, she was technically in your group under Commander Morrison’s supervision but- 

You gave your name and then added, “I don’t have a cool alias,” and laughed. She chuckled too. “Yet!” and you both smirked. You motioned to hulk of machinery that leaned against you, “And this is...My Good Friend.” You practically lived for this one stupid thing. 

Vanta nodded to you both, apparently able to appreciate this “joke” even though it was stupid. You took a second to examine her. 

She had very dark skin. Dark eyes. Dark hair. Dark clothes. Something was dawning on you. She appeared to be a hole in space. Her eyes, skin, and hair the only thing that produced any reflection. She had a standard issue pulse rifle in her arms. It too was painted black. But whatever material covered it and her body seemed to flatten every possible curve into a plane of nothingness. It ate light. 

You jerked upright suddenly and smiled wide, “Vantablack!” you laughed, “I get it. I get it now. You’re very committed to that pun, huh?” 

Her lips pulled back, exposing shiny white teeth and pink gums. She giggled, her words bubbling out of her, “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for somebody to get it!”

You patted GF beside you, “Great minds think alike?” 

She nodded. In that moment, you made a dear friend. You two spent the rest of the ride talking about nothing in particular. You realized with a laugh that the reason you never noticed her much before was because she blended in with the shadows. If she closed her eyes and pulled up her hood, she simply sunk into nothing. So long as it was dark at least. 

You’d learn that although she was a recruit she didn’t have to wear the standard uniform. She’d found a way to use the strange light-eating material to her advantage. Humans had a hard time fighting something they couldn’t fully see. They couldn’t tell what weapons she did or didn’t have. Even Omnics could be fooled, she boasted. Heat seeking sensors were easily overcome with her other tools. Everything allowed her to get in close and force the enemy to fight on her terms. Didn’t work so well in the day, though. 

Towards the end of the trip you met Cao as well. You recognized him only because he dressed in blue Overwatch branded scrubs and carried a plexiglass briefcase emblazoned with a red cross. Cao’s face was covered with a surgical mask and oversized glasses. 

He was shorter than you or Vanta and soft spoken. He demonstrated his invention: light, portable medical stations. He could set them up in strategic locations for allies to use at their whim. Though, they couldn’t heal everything. He gushed over the advances of medical science in the past decade. Neither you nor Vanta understood half of what he said, but you didn’t stop him. You spent the trip happily listening to him and marveling at the so called MedPacks he’d created. 

\--

The following forty-eight hours didn’t go very well. 

The first sign of trouble was the sudden cut out of all communications between your unit and the Overwatch Headquarters. Even your interpersonal comms were overcome with static noise. The Strike Commander hadn’t gone with you. A senior officer was in charge. He appeared worried but kept a brave face. Something was not right. 

You set up in various positions along the planned route after thoroughly scouting the area. Your particular job was to follow about thirty feet behind the slow moving vehicle. Others walked beside it or in front of it in a small convoy. You felt your stomach begin to tie itself into knots. 

Through static, Cao gently reminded everyone of where he’d set up the MedPacks should a fight break out. Although he was quick to assure everyone he believed no such thing would happen. You weren’t so sure. Your squad leader was too tense. The area too quiet. 

This was a backwater half-abandoned town in the desert. The roads were bordered by dilapidated buildings and broken cars. Piles of metal and concrete rubble blocked a number of the splits in the road. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Not before when Vanta and another had done initial recon and not now. 

You fixed your attention on the large cloth covered vehicle in front of you. This didn’t make sense did it? Wouldn’t it be easier to pick up the cargo in the giant aircraft you’d just arrived in and take it to… Wait, where was this going? You had noted on the map there was a huge warehouse at the end of the route. A good forty five minute drive at the pace that thing was going. 

Your tongue turned over silent questions in your mouth. After a contemplative minute you made a decision. You radioed your squad leader. With the static you had to repeat yourself a few times to be heard.

Can we go faster? Is there any news on what happened to the communications? Who is our client? Did we evacuate the town before getting here? Why are we escorting this truck instead of taking it ourselves? 

You received what you believed to be honest answers. Albeit unsatisfactory ones. You couldn’t go faster because the cargo was “volatile”. You asked if this meant chemical. He didn’t know. Something was making an interference pattern that affected all comm channels. But the ship wasn’t equipped to track it. Overwatch was here on behalf of the locals of the town. Who they were and where they went, he didn’t know. Overwatch wasn’t authorized to officially transport whatever it was, but they could provide protection. Why? He didn’t know. 

The whole thing was reminding you of your time in Cairo and the surrounding area. You did a brief stint as a mercenary. You didn’t like it. You didn’t like how much this mission mirrored many you’d taken while you’d lived in Egypt. A lot of what you’d “protected” back then were arms sales and god knows what else. You had existed as hired muscle. You and your Good Friend fought for and against various gangs and local governmental factions. It wasn’t pretty and it often went wrong.

Twenty agonizing minutes pass. You keep pace behind the covered truck. It was hot. You were sweating in your uniform. You felt like you were about to vomit. The soft hum of the floating vehicle and footsteps of your comrades filled your ears. 

One could not get far in the life you’d led without gaining some basic instincts. All of yours were telling you that something wasn’t right. You voiced concerns to your squad leader. He agreed and merely ordered you to stay vigilant. 

Then it happened. The crack of gunfire. A bullet ricocheted off the truck’s hood. Everyone tensed and got ready for the fire fight. This would be fine. You’d done this umpteen times before. Your Good Friend usually outclassed whatever whimpy trash your enemies wielded. 

What happened next wasn’t a proper fire fight. It was more like being in a firing range. You standing in as a target dummy. Bullets assaulted your convey from all sides. You were forced to break formation and take cover. You heard your comrades return the fire at intervals. 

If you could just see where they were shooting from! A particularly close shot made sparks on the metal hub close to your ear. You bolted and fired a heavy volley of suppressive fire in the rough direction it came from. As far as anyone could tell you were merely shooting at the ruins of houses and overgrown sage bushes. But your Good Friend did exactly what it’s always done. Be loud and scary.

You could hear shouting and spotted a few vague shapes running between the mounds of broken concrete and rebar. That side stopped shooting at you briefly. Parts of the wall where you’d shot crumbled in response to GF’s large caliber rounds. 

The convoy had to keep moving. You fired back when you could. Good Friend had some perks as it scared the offenders off momentarily and made them take up new positions. But, it had drawbacks too. You moved slowly when firing. You couldn’t help it. Good Friend was heavy and unwieldy. It was hard to aim a four and half foot monster that needed both hands to hold while also running for your life. 

Thankfully they didn’t seem very intent on killing you. Although you were certain they shot at you far more than at the others. Most of the bullets that didn’t hit the ground by your feet struck the truck. They intended to damage the cargo inside no doubt. 

Unfortunately your fleshy body often stood in the way of them and their target. You stumbled when a burning pain shot up your back. 

“I’m hit-” you advised your teammates. The static of the comms was worse now. 

Over the noise, you heard Cao shouting, half in the comms and half near you, “Medpack-” something intelligible, “Storefront!” 

You knew what he meant. There was a Medpack set up inside an abandoned store with half the front missing. You dashed toward it. A mistake. Someone knew where you were going. Another shot burst into your side and you felt it smolder in your ribs.

That was stupid. You should have known. If you moved in a predictable way, you just made it easier for them to kill you. You changed your stride accordingly. Jumping over this way, stopping suddenly and moving back. Zig-zagging your way toward it.

You stooped low and slid over the small contraption on the ground. It’s soft glow flickering as your body moved over it. You didn’t know how it worked but you were damn thankful. You felt a slight wetness on your skin as whatever was inside the hard light capsule burst and you inhaled it deeply. 

The pain numbed considerably. You rushed back toward the payload. The bullet wounds were still there but now you could keep going. You almost forgot you’d been hit until it happened again a few minutes later. This shot was in the right shoulder. Aiming sucked twice as much now. At least the pain wasn’t as bad. Whether that was from Cao’s capsule or the adrenaline you didn’t know. 

The rest of the hour was a blur. The payload reached the destination and was quickly locked inside the large warehouse. You noticed the “clients” Overwatch worked for were standing outside of it. They didn’t dress respectable. They carried black market weapons. You knew this because you’d seen this many times before. 

After that you had to defend the perimeter. It took another three hours until the assailants relented. You’d lost track of how often you needed to snag the MedPacks Cao had set up. 

Once the fight was properly over, you were sent out look for casualties. Any evidence of who’d been shooting at you. You found none. Just splatters of blood here and there that were already drying in the hot sun. One of the plain clothes senior agents collected samples of it here and there. 

The pain was returning. The anaesthetic of the MedPack was wearing off. You started to feel dizzy. MedPacks couldn’t replace lost blood after all. Cao did his best to bandage everyone on the way back to the ship. 

You weren’t doing well. Some of the bullets had been tipped with something. Your body didn’t react well to it at all. Cao set up makeshift cots in the open area of the aircraft. You lied down on one and closed your eyes. You didn’t let go of GF. You couldn’t. Your limbs felt heavy and useless.

\--

When you finally woke, you felt like a corpse. The ceiling that you stared up at was illuminated by a very soft orange and blue glow. You realized you weren’t on the ship. Soft conversation and quiet groans drifted around you. 

When you moved to sit up you noticed the wires and tubes in your arm. One was hooked up a fluids bag that dripped steadily into your veins. Others were attached to sensors that led to a large computer terminal next to your bed. Your heart rate was displayed on the screen. 

Footsteps. The curtained partition moved back with a gentle swish. The a woman stood before you, seemingly enshrouded in a halo of light. You blinked blearily at the angelic figure, wondering if you’d died. 

She said your name. You nodded dumbly. She said it again. Your eyes cleared and the face of Dr. Zeigler came into sharp focus. The slightly dimmed lights of the infirmary blinked irregularly behind her. 

You learned that you were indeed not dead. In fact, you were doing better than some others. You asked about Cao and Vanta. Vanta was alright, but sleeping. Cao was helping in the infirmary and she’d let him know you asked about him. You asked more questions than you should as she checked your vitals and reactions. Something about her made it quite easy to speak freely. 

She nodded as she listened. Yet, didn’t offer any explanations or advice. She merely assured you that everyone and everything would be fine. As she turned away from your bed you caught it. That look on her face. The look of worry and slight horror. This made you uneasy. The rumors you’d heard rose in your mind and you could not swat them away.

Heavier footsteps. A man’s voice. You sat up straighter. The Strike Commander had come to check on the injured. He exchanged words you couldn’t quite make out with Dr. Zeigler. You only heard him call her Angela. You strained your ears to hear his heavy boots as he walked about the room. 

Overwatch’s Strike Commander loved visiting the injured. He always made a point to make rounds in the infirmary. New recruits or otherwise. He didn’t cry or gush over their bravery, or course. But he knew his presence was still a show of compassion. It boosted morale. It made people respect him. It didn’t matter that it was only a cherry on top of what he really loved. 

Jack Morrison liked seeing people in pain. He loved it, actually. He had a particular way of deriving pleasure out of the anguish of others. Whether this was the result of a strange and tough life or he simply was a monster, no one would ever know. And whether this quirk was harmless yet remains to be seen. 

He liked seeing people beneath him squirm. His subordinates. He liked how they looked to him for reassurance and strength. He liked seeing his superiors gasping and grimacing. He liked how pain humbled them. How they were embarrassed by their own weakness when he observed them. He liked seeing his equals bloodied and bruised. He liked how they could tell he enjoyed it. How they sneered at his false comforts and praise. He loved how they couldn’t do anything about it.

You didn’t know any of this. So, naturally you hoped that the Commander might come see you. You could hear him giving out little bits of praise like candy. A special treat you knew he was stingy with. You tried to neaten your hair and wipe your face on the blankets. 

Your mind was abuzz with your mission and your performance. For a moment you were again struck with that awful thought. This had been no different from Egypt. Overwatch was supposed to be more than just another errant mercenary group with fancy weapons, right? Your chest tightened at the thought.

But then the Commander stepped up to your bedside, “Shell shocked?” he asked gently. 

You snapped out of your thoughts and looked up to him. There were many cuts on your face. Angry red lines and little scabs. Your bottom lip was swollen and split. A bruise was forming along your jaw and up your cheek. You had no idea how that even happened. You had no idea how much your Commander liked looking at it. 

“Wasn’t so bad,” you laughed slightly and winced, “I’ve been through that song and dance before.” You half wanted to bring up your worries of what Overwatch was. Half wanted to play it cool. It wasn’t quite the time for either. 

“Oh?” he carefully took stalk of your injuries. Multiple gunshot wounds. At least one laceration. You were bandaged, bruised, and bleeding through parts of your hospital gown. “You’ll need to get that changed,” he mentioned. 

You nodded. “Dr. Zeigler said Cao will be over to do it.” He didn’t care, really. But he was enjoying the slight twinge in your face when you spoke. 

It clearly hurt to breathe deeply. You shifted your body carefully, cognizant of your tender wounds. He noticed you favored one side of your body. He could see how you leaned to left to take pressure off the gunshots in your right. 

Satisfied, he crossed his arms. “If you’re used to it, then it shows.”

“Does it?,” you smile sheepishly, “Well, I have my fair share of scars, that’s for sure.” 

“Do you now? Well that makes two of us then.” He had a great voice. Deep and just a little rough. You understood why he was the one giving public speeches. 

You laughed slightly and smiled. It hurt. Your smile was fighting a grimace. The motion reawakened some bleeding in your lip. A dark ooze of blood dripped down to your chin. Suddenly self conscious, you wiped it away with your arm. That stung. The Strike Commander felt his lips pull into a genuine smile. Your own were smeared with blood. Red was a good color for you. For all the wrong reasons. 

He watched your cheeks flush with sudden embarrassment. You weren’t sure why, but you felt kind of vulnerable under his gaze. Before he hadn’t thought of you as being particularly good looking, but he rather liked what he saw now. 

“Officer Warren said you handled yourself well.” 

There it was. The tiny, little bit of recognition you were hoping for. You looked up to him, appearing pleased. Perhaps stupidly, you said “I told you I would,” without hesitation. 

The Commander raised a brow at this. “So you did,” he conceded. 

You frowned suddenly. Those awful thoughts kept climbing their way to the surface. About Egypt. The rumors. Overwatch. He watched as your face give way to internal conflict. You seemed to doubt something. It was curious. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You shook your head. You couldn’t tell your Commander. There’s no way he wasn’t already aware of everything anyway. Besides, there was probably more to the story than what you’ve been seeing. You didn’t exactly have all the facts after all. 

“Oh, I’m alright,” you shook your head. 

He didn’t believe you. You looked doubtful about something. It was rather intriguing actually. It kept him in front of you for a few more minutes as he unsuccessfully tried to coax it out of you. You shrugged him off though. 

Your Commander realized he’d spent far more time here than he should have. But you just looked so...perfect. Wincing at every breath, not quite able to meet his eyes, lips smeared with now drying blood. He might have been able to tear himself away if had only been this. 

But then you licked the blood off your lips. It hurt a little. You realized what you did and felt strangely embarrassed. You giggled nervously and hid your mouth with your hand, knuckles purple and red. 

It was that moment that Jack Morrison decided he liked seeing you in pain. You in particular. In fact, there was a lot about you that was quite pleasing. You had a decent face. Pretty enough and very expressive. Your body, from what little he’d seen with your clothes on, had a nice shape. Your skin bruised wonderfully. And although you were quite resilient you often looked fragile. When you tilted your head up to speak to him, exposing your neck, he was tempted to put his hands around it and listen to it snap under his crushing fingers. 

You looked up at him with innocent and naive eyes. “Thank you for coming to see me,” you meant it. You really wanted to impress him. He struck you as a sort of hard to please father-figure, but you knew if he praised you then he meant it. You added, “Sir,” at the end. It seemed right. 

Sir. Pretty much everyone called him sir. But he liked hearing you say it. He wondered what your voice sounded like when you screamed. He knew he’d love it. He had to hear it. Eventually. But now, he had other things to attend to. 

“Be seeing you, soldier,” he really was smiling at you. He was smiling as he left. 

You thought to yourself that your squad leader had really talked you up to him for that kind of reaction. Leaning back into the bed, you relaxed. You were still worried about basically everything but also a little pleased. You felt confident that you’d made a good impression with your Commander now. Perhaps good enough to erase your less than stellar performance during the monthly evaluations. 

You hear Cao’s voice nearby and his light steps. You closed your eyes for a moment. This was alright. Not bad for a first mission, you mused. Even if it had been… strange, it was alright. After that talk with the Commander, you were sure everything would turn out okay for you at Overwatch. Strange or not. 

It was a mistake to believe that. But, you had no way to know at the time. Really, it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong at all. You just happened upon a monster. 

So it goes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Commander likes you. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Ah- I'm excited to write this. To the point where I've been working on it instead of a whole lot of homework. Because I'm a responsible adult and I make good decisions. Please let me know how y'all like this chapter! I hope even though it was long, you found it enjoyable.
> 
> Farewell until the next.


	3. Perilous Affections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be doing actual essays. But writing this gives me life. Although it gets harder to write Dark!Morrison every time I see his freaking dance emote, I swear.

I worry for you. I worry because I know any words of warning or comfort will not reach you. I can not hide you from that monster. I can not guide your actions nor thoughts. I can not pull you out of the maw in which you find yourself. 

I can only watch. Only wait until nature takes its course. Still, I will be here. Always here. I will speak out to you, in some faint hope of being heard. 

So, this time my dear one, my words to you are this: even if you could romance a monster, what kind of love would that be? I want you to think carefully on this. Do you think a monster is capable of loving properly, if at all? What if it’s affections are not kisses and gifts but claws and venom? The monster may come to love you. It will love you as it knows how to do so. In the course of it’s love, it may crush and ruin you. It will kill you. 

Ah, but it isn’t right to chide you like this, is it? For in this moment, you see no monster. Sense no danger. The ever darkening clouds on your horizon have yet to near the edges of your vision. But I can see them rolling in. I know what will happen. 

Well, that’s not entirely true, actually. I know what will likely happen. No guarantees one way or the other. 

You could surprise me yet.

3 || Perilous Affections 

You had new scars now. Theystood out only in their tenderness. You didn’t mind. You forgot them quickly, actually. There were other things which demanded your attention. Namely, the ever turning rumor mill. 

You’d confided into Vanta your feelings and worries. She’d agreed. The mission had surprised her too. You’d asked Cao about Dr. Zeigler’s pained expressions. Though he was quick to write it off, he’d agreed as well. She was putting on a brave face. Of you three, only Vanta could make guesses at why. She reasoned there must be a struggle about Overwatch’s purpose. Perhaps it had been slowly changing and now the reality of it was dawning on Dr. Zeigler and the other members.

You heard from a few of the recruits something similar. They had made friends with the older agents. These friends spilled secrets which seemed to confirm your fears and Vanta’s theory. Yet at the same time, these were only rumors. Secondhand at that. You only heard these secrets from other recruits. It could be all wrong. Could be a misunderstanding of sorts. You weren’t sure which you hoped for more.

Another month had passed. No mission for you. You trained instead. Your aim was sloppy again. Your head clouded with memories of Egypt and worries of Overwatch. You had an evaluation soon. Or so you thought. You honestly had lost track of the time. You didn’t notice the Strike Commander had been watching. Every time you absentmindedly missed a large target he took a step toward you. Until finally he was just behind you. 

“Distracted?” his voice startled you. You tripped over yourself in turning around and saluting. It made him laugh. 

“Sir!” you didn’t offer any explanation for your shoddy shots. You only blushed and awkwardly held your Good Friend close to you. Wasn’t the evaluation tomorrow? Did you even remember to mark the date? Worry was apparently making you careless.

You were not bleeding today. Nor were you bruised. That he could see, anyway. Still, the Strike Commander found that he enjoyed looking at you. He liked that you were too embarrassed to meet his gaze. Something he was used too, of course. His eyes cowed a lot of people. But you didn’t seem to do so out of fear. Yet. 

“Shoot like that,” he motioned towards the range, “You won’t be able to shoot for much longer.” 

You didn’t want to look but you turned your head all the same. Oh. You really did miss a lot of targets. Big targets. Big stationary targets. You laughed nervously and just nodded. You wanted to mumble some excuse but you couldn’t bring yourself to. Your face was burning hot. 

You looked so small to him. You’d be even smaller out of those baggy training sweats. Without that stupid gun. He reached out and grasped the body of your Good Friend. You froze but didn’t let go. You’d shot people for trying something like this. Under different circumstances, of course. 

“May I?” 

Of course you relented. Albeit after a few seconds. A hesitation that he noticed and was briefly irritated by. He lifted your Good Friend up with one hand and studied it. You were impressed but not surprised. One of the rumors in the mill was that the Strike Commander wasn’t merely a terrifyingly good soldier by virtue of training. Rather, he’d been engineered. You could believe either. 

“You built this thing yourself?” To him, it seemed impractical. You couldn’t run with something like this. At least not very well. He valued maneuverability. It was all well and good to have a big loud gun. But, if you could not close the gap between you and a fleeing opponent then it was a hindrance. 

“Yes, well no,” your history with your Good Friend was as long as it was complicated. You started trying to explain the highlights of it, “He didn’t always look like that. He was actually much smaller in the beginning-” 

“He?” he chuckled. You somehow turned even more red than before. 

“I- well, it was much smaller! Because before it was a-” you rambled off the history of your gun, trying to will your blood out of your face. You talked about how your metal friend came into your hands. How it was a modified shotgun when you’d first held it. Then you removed a barrel and fiddled with this. Broke that and needed to replace it. Took a few liberties here and there. Then you took it to a professional who made everything about it bigger. You went on and on, nervous knots tied in your intestines. Did you sound as stupid as you felt?

As far as your Commander went, probably. He really wasn’t listening closely. He was just amused by how much your face changed with your story. You had very expressive features and absolutely no restraint when emoting. He loved that. It made him picture what you might look like if your hand was held gently. Then twisted. Then broken. 

Finally, he handed your Good Friend back. Abruptly ending your impromptu life story. You clutched the warm metal like you might disappear without it. Your small hands barely wrapped around the barrel. Again, your Commander pictured something different. That flushed face and those small hands holding-

“Morrison,” there was a different voice. Darker. 

You both turned to look. You knew that was the Blackwatch Commander. Gabriel Reyes. You also knew through stories that if Overwatch proper seemed a little shady then Blackwatch was drowned in shadow. The Blackwatch tended to be the scarier and often edgier agents you’d seen. Always in black uniforms, of course. Always just a bit disrespectful to everyone else. 

With his back to you, you couldn’t see how annoyed your Commander looked. His words were flat, “What, Reyes?”

The Blackwatch Commander took several leisurely steps in your direction. His eyes flicked from Morrison to you. “Who’s that?” 

“Do you have something to report?” 

You stood up a bit straighter. Blackwatch or no, Commander Reyes was your superior after all. 

“Evaluations already? Bit early, isn’t it?” He smirked. He often did that. He finally came to a stop a foot or so from Morrison. 

Side by side like this, they made you a bit nervous. They were the same height and build. No- not quite the same. Morrison was more...top heavy. His upper body more muscled and broad than his lower. Reyes wasn’t lacking in that area by any means but was generally thicker all over. You didn’t doubt either them could crack heads when need be, though. 

“Spit it out already, Reyes. I’m busy,” he folded his arms across his chest. 

“Busy doing what, exactly?” he was looking at you again, “Getting to know the recruits a little more- intimately?” 

What he said didn’t register right away. When it did however, you had a stifle a snort. Commander Morrison was stickler for rules and appearances. As if he’d do something that inappropriate, and with you of all people. It was a nice thought though. 

“You run outta things to do today? I’d be happy to assign you something.” Morrison chose to ignore the small noise you’d made at Reyes’ comment. He’d deal with that later. 

“Yeah, yeah I’m sure you would be. But before that, Zeigler’s screaming for you. They found him.” 

You could have sworn the air became several degrees colder. Morrison didn’t look back or say anything to you. He pushed past Reyes and was quickly gone. You fiddled with the small charm you’d attached to Good Friend. It was a flat tin heart wreathed in flames. A milagro. From a church in Santa Fe. 

The Blackwatch Commander stayed back a moment. He was looking at you like you had something. What that was, he didn’t know exactly but was curious enough to find out. You stood awkwardly in front of him, silent. Should you salute? Or speak? You didn’t know. 

He snickered and shook his head, “Nice gun.”

“Uh, thanks?” 

That really hadn’t sounded like a compliment. 

He turned from you as well. But in leaving he gave a little wave as he walked out. You were soon alone again. Your shoulders relaxed and you tried to peer out the door a bit. You weren’t sure if you’d passed either of their inspections. 

\--

You didn’t see either them for awhile after that. Instead you found yourself on regular missions. Minimal recovery time between each. For better or worse, they were not like the first. Sometimes it was security detail. Other times it was purely a fight with some enemy. On occasion a familiar one, other times not so much. 

Two months had passed like this. You were tired. Sometimes there wasn’t even a day between shipping out to one assignment and another. Years ago you’d perfected sleeping in the worst of conditions, but even this schedule was too much. The airships you often took were only so comfortable. And your squadmates only endearing with their quirks and noise for so long. 

When a real break was finally given you were overjoyed. But in that dim, exhausted way where even your thoughts couldn’t muster energy to sound excited. You arrived back at the main base in the late hours of the night. The past few assignments had you nocturnal. The only thing moving your feet was the vague notion of waking up to proper sunlight again. 

Shouldering both Good Friend and a heavy duffel bag, you shuffled on toward your room. Or at least, where you remembered your room being. It’d been so long you almost forgot. Vanta had elected to nap on the ship. Cao had been refusing sleep and instead set to work in the infirmary as soon the ship touched down. Had you been more awake you might have worried about him burning out.

But as it were, you were burned out yourself. Your muscles ached. The pain pulsing in your joints with each step. Your tendons seemed to strain as if they’d snap with even a slight movement. There were new wounds on your body. Now bandaged and stitched up. Some of it would scar. Your skin had become a beaten watercolor painting of fading greens and yellows mixing with blotches of black and purple. 

You walked down the long hall to the dorm area alone. Lights dimmed. Silent save for your shifting steps. Under the sickly blue strip lights you looked even worse. Your hair was pulled back, but was still knotted. You could feel grease from your scalp sticking your hair down. When was the last time you got to shower? You weren’t sure. You’d had to settle for impromptu bird baths in bathroom sinks. Though, you usually chose to try to nap instead. 

It hurt to keep your eyes open. So you didn’t. You used your shoulder to feel along the wall. You counted the doors you passed by the way their handles scraped your side. One. Two. Three. Four. Your door was next. You stopped in front of it, eyes just barely opening. You dropped the duffel bag from your shoulder, wincing at the sudden change in weight. 

You groped for the handle and turned it. Locked. Well, that was hardly surprising. It might be worrisome if it hadn’t been. But in your exhausted state you could only hum in annoyance. Your free hand dug into your pocket for your keycard. You found it but had trouble lining it up with the slot. 

It was then a man’s voice called your name. 

You didn’t quite have the wherewithal to question who was calling you, let alone what they were doing in the cadet halls. You merely turned your head slightly in their direction, blinking slowly. 

He said your name again. Then you felt a hand on your shoulder. “You look like shit,” he laughed softly. 

You could only nod in agreement. You probably did look like shit. You certainly felt like it. But you’d feel better if you could just go lay down in a real bed for just a minute. You tried to insert your keycard into the reader again. Despite there being exactly one slot you still managed to miss. 

The keycard was taken from your hands. You heard a faint beep and then felt someone usher you into your now open door. Once inside you dropped Good Friend carelessly. It landed with a muffled thud into some laundry you’d left on the floor. You heard the door close behind you. 

At some point, you managed to sit on the bed. You wanted to lie down but chose to fight your boots first. You’d laced them too tightly to simply kick them off. You struggled with them for a moment but ultimately gave up. You flopped back into your bed with a resigned sigh. Your eyes felt like they were stitched closed. You couldn’t open them even if you wanted too. Yet somehow, your consciousness refused to fade into sleep. 

It was the pulsing. The aching dull throb in your muscles that was keeping you up. As you lay there, finally still, you could feel the layer of grime on your face. Every bit of skin suddenly hypersensitive to the roughness of your dirtied clothes and the relative softness of your bed. 

In the dark of your room, the man who’d helped you stood at the foot your bed. His face barely lit by the narrow stream of light through your half shuttered window. His blue eyes stared down at your pitiful form while a smile tugged his lips. He could see you well enough. He had seen enough of you in the halls. You really did look awful. Were he capable of the feeling he might have felt bad for you. He hadn’t meant for you be sent out so much. But your squadron was proving to be surprisingly useful. Invaluable considering how inexperienced you all were. 

A large hand with long, rough fingers rested itself on your thigh. You noted the searing heat through your clothes but otherwise didn’t think or move. You couldn’t do either. Your mind was a foggy mess. Your body a battered a wreck. He ran his hand down your leg, slowly with light pressure. You winced slightly, dimly aware of something agitating your scrapes and bruises. The edges of his fingers brushed the tip of a fat stitched up cut on your calf. You let out a small whimper. That one was particularly fresh. 

His face split with a smile. The hand left your leg and tapped the toe of your boot. “You won’t get to sleep like this,” he said gently. He wasn’t really talking to you, though. 

You could feel something tugging at your boots. The sound of your laces being pulled apart with a hiss, the buckles clacking against themselves. Then they were off. He let your boots drop to the floor and kicked them away under your bed. 

“Isn’t that better?” 

A hand was back on your leg. This time it started from your ankles and traced a not quite so gentle path up to the waistband of your pants. You made a small noise but otherwise didn’t stir. 

“Can’t really sleep in your uniform like this, either.” 

Your hips were tugged forward a bit. Two hands had slipped their warm, calloused fingers into your waistband and began pulling it off of you. He wasn’t very careful as removed your pants. Every cut and purple blotch on your leg was either touched or jostled. But once your pants were off, he dropped them to the floor.

Now he could see where you’d been cut. He noted a bandaged area on your left leg. He felt it with his fingers. The bandages were slightly damp and likely stained brownish pink in better light. You had started to bleed through them. He clucked his tongue and gave the area an appreciative rub with the palm of his hand.  
“Shrapnel’s nasty, isn’t it?” he always kept up with injury reports for missions. Knowing what pieces he could put in or out of play was important. As was knowing where just where to grab someone should their tone become too friendly or probing. 

He took a moment to step back and count the scars on your legs. You really had meant it when you’d said you had your fair share. In the soft blue moonlight he could see could see which scars were fading and which wounds would become new ones. 

“That shirt’s gotta be filthy too. Don’t want to get your bed dirty, right?” 

The bed depressed in one side as he put his knee on it. He leaned over your body and studied your face. He didn’t know if you were asleep or not. But he did enjoy your screwed up expression. 

“Here now,” the hands forced themselves under your back, “Let’s get you out of it before you fall asleep, eh?” and with a groan you were sitting up. 

He peeled the sweat soaked shirt from your body, roughly pulling it off over your head and tossing it behind him. He let you fall back into the bed. You shifted slightly, suddenly aware of the cool air on your mostly bare skin. 

Disappointingly, your chest had few injuries. A bruise here and small knick there. Nothing exciting. You felt that same warm roughness from before on your stomach. His fingers splaying out to feel your skin. You were soft. His hands were hot. 

For a brief moment your eyes fluttered open. They focused on a face in the near dark. Your voice was crackly with fatigue and dehydration, “Commander?” 

A finger was placed on your lips, “Shh, get some rest, soldier. We can’t have you wearing yourself out just yet, can we?” 

Your eyes closed. Your body hurt. There was a hot hand on your stomach. The fingers of which were drawing lazy circles around your old scars. At some point, you feel into a fitful sleep. You wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning.

\--

By some miracle, your squadron had a sizable amount of downtime. You spent the first three days of it sleeping and scarfing down meals Vanta brought you. You finally got around to feeling rested. And of course, being you, you started to get antsy. 

The rumor mill turned as it always did. But, now you had started to ignore it. Even more so when they started to concern Dr. Zeigler, the Commander, and a few other names you recognized. You felt as though stressing over something you couldn’t prove was unnecessary. You just didn’t have all the facts to make any judgements.

So, you resigned yourself to following orders. When an order from your Commander summoned you to his office, you tried not to question why. But, human nature got the better of you. You spent the walk and subsequent wait outside his door in abject terror.

Were your evaluation scores still unsatisfactory? Perhaps you were being moved into a different unit? You’d had a small spat with another in your squadron which ended up getting both of you blasted with a makeshift pipe bomb. The scraps of which were still in the process of worming their way out of your left leg. 

The Commander finally called you in. He didn’t appear...angry. Though he asked you to close the door. Your heart jumped to your throat when he said your name.

“How are you feeling?” the question surprised you. 

“Oh, um. Better! Much better!” which was true. You did feel better. Things still hurt but not in that all encompassing way they had before. 

“Good,” he stood up from his chair, “I’m glad.” He was, in fact, glad you felt better. Old wounds were only interesting for so long. You needed to heal before you could get any better ones. Besides, you had a few cuts that ought to make nice scars soon. 

You smiled at him, still unsure. He always made a point to check up on the injured, didn’t he? You appreciated that. He clearly cared about the well being of his men..and women. 

He rounded the large desk and was soon in front of you. You looked up at him, feeling confident enough to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were boring into yours. His smile easy and sincere. A strange prickling started up your spine. Your own smile faltered for a second. 

He noticed the slight fluctuation in your mood. This was fine. He could fix that. “You know, I was worried when you first came here. But you made a lot of improvements.”

Your lips pulled back into a smile. You nodded and said a quick thanks. You were a sucker for praise. Even more so from someone like him. He didn’t give just anybody his approval. 

There. He had pulled you back. Just as he thought he could. He looked past you briefly out the frosted window in the door. He listened for people in the halls. He knew there would be none. But just in case, he listened for a moment. Empty.

He took a few steps forward. He was almost on your toes now. You furrowed your brow for a moment and stepped back. He stepped forward again. You moved back. He moved forward. 

He said your name in a low voice, “Have you made yourself at home here yet?”

There it was again. That prickling in your spine. “I um, I think so. It’s nice to come back to base after missions.” You were unsure again. He could see it. You looked worried. 

“That’s good to hear. I’m always worried about people adjusting, you know?” he laughed, “But you’ve been doing so well. I really shouldn’t let myself worry about you. You’ve been able to handle a lot.”

Your cheeks tinted slightly and the smile was once again on your face. “Thank you, Commander.” You were serious. You were touched he thought so highly of you. To call you into his office to tell you in person even. 

He had you again. It’s not your fault. Even if you weren’t so easy to read he could still do this. He was good at it. He liked doing this. It entertained him. 

He was almost on your toes again. You moved back without thinking. You were still smiling, hands clasped in front of you. Your back hit the door. With a jolt you realized how close he suddenly was to you. Your face was almost in his chest. You tilted your head up, smile starting to fall somewhat off your face.

“I just want you to understand your place here. Feel comfortable with it.” He said your name again. He said it in that deep, firm voice that was making your heart beat quicken. 

“Yes sir, thank you,” but now you weren’t sure how thankful you were. Your eyes darted to one side. You planned for a second to slip by and have some space. You didn’t realize the Commander was such a close talker. 

He saw where your eyes went. In response he put a hand against the wall by your head. You were trapped. Your face started to turn red. You rung the hem of your shirt nervously as you looked up at him. You opened your mouth to ask something but your words wouldn’t come out. You suddenly stared down at the floor. 

Again, your name was on his lips. He said it in a tone that made your cheeks crimson. “I mean it,” your name yet again, like he was coating it in honey, “I really _adore_ you.” 

You could feel your heart fluttering into your throat. You closed your lips tightly lest it escape. With a deep breath you looked up to face him again, not believing what you were hearing. With a start, you realized his face was barely an inch from yours. You could feel his hot breath on your lips. His deep earthy scent was making your knees weak. 

Yet at the same time, panic was rising in your gut. It’s cold claws reaching up into the pit of your chest and turning your skin to gooseflesh. This wasn’t happening. This was a dream. A fantasy. A nightmare, even. 

His lips brushed yours. You tried to move back but your head was already against the wall. Your voice trembled, “S-sir?” 

“Don’t think of me as just your Commander.” 

That wasn't an invitation or suggestion.

That was an order. 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You don't understand. You're his now. It was never your choice.  
> \--
> 
> Finalllllyyyy things can happennnn like the requests. That only took forever. But at least things heat up in this chapter, eh? 
> 
> Oh, by the by, I am trying a weird thing. [Here it is on my tumblr thing ](https://thatwhichwrites.tumblr.com/post/161360467731/reading-testexperiment-poor-recording-aside-i) I have mild delusions of doing things with my voice. Any input on either that or especially this chapter is much appreciated! I love getting your guys' comments <3
> 
> I hope you enjoyed. Farewell until the next.


	4. In Stages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are killing me inside slowly. I have to write an essay about couches. Seriously. 8-10 pages. why

I’ve been thinking for awhile now that words I gave you before were too much. Too far ahead, as it were. I cautioned you against a danger you wouldn’t see for some time. I chastised you for a love you will not feel yet- if at all. I am sorry. I believe I sought to do something. Anything. But I can do nothing but watch. In my apprehension and frustration I often find myself rambling.

It serves no real purpose. 

…

I did promise, however, to be here for you. And I shall be. Though you can neither hear me or know of me yet, I’ll be here. I will hope for you. I will cheer for you. I will wait for you. For you shall join me, eventually. Once everything has played out, I know you will end up here. When that time finally comes...

My dearest one. 

I will grieve for you. 

4 || In Stages

You don’t quite remember how you left Commander Morrison's office. If you forced yourself to think about it you might’ve remembered a phone call. His sudden change in mood. A last kiss on your dazed lips. Then you being dismissed. Your feet taking you to your room where you now sat. 

As it was, you couldn’t force yourself to think. Your heart still thundered in your chest. As the minutes ticked away, so did the validity of your memories. None of that… None of that was real. You were clearly tired. It wasn’t real. These were half dreams that you were mistaking for reality.

You lied down on your bed and closed your eyes. You must be exhausted to have come up with such a- what could you even call that? Your hands still shook with nervous tremors. So worked up. All over nothing. You didn’t even see the Commander today did you?  
You spent a lot of time with your head under the covers. Convincing yourself of the supposed truth. It was the only way you could sleep. 

\--

The next few days were mundane. There were neither missions nor Morrison. After awhile, you felt silly for even imagining it in the first place. Yet, you could still faintly feel the anxiety squirming behind your sternum. Perhaps, you reasoned, you were ashamed to think of your Commander in such a way? Such a breach of protocol- even imagined, was quite serious. Wasn’t it?

You mulled over your thoughts inside the weaponry workshop. These rooms were usually off limits to newer agents, but they made an exception for your Good Friend. You had wanted to clean off the grease, dirt, and dried blood. To do so required completely disassembling Good Friend and a great deal of patience. The work kept your hands busy as you detangled your thoughts. 

The other day in the Strike Commander’s office hadn’t happened. That was true enough. But you didn’t think you’d liked him to such an extent as to have that kind of fantasy. You respected him, of course. Knowing your work in the field had garnered his approval had you over the moon. And it went without saying he was extremely handsome. But, were you so enamoured that you couldn’t remember what really happened that day?

No. You weren’t that type of person. It must have surely been the exhaustion. The stress. The idea of running what amounted to mercenary missions still vexed you terribly. It’s only natural your thoughts got away from you. The Commander kissing you. Before that, some figure looming over your bedside in the dark. 

Such ridiculous notions. You allowed yourself a small laugh. You ought to talk to Dr. Zeigler about this exhaustion, you mused. This kind of distraction would be, at worst, fatal in battle. At best, you would make a fool of yourself in front of everyone. Especially Commander Morrison. 

“So, here you are.” 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. 

You nearly jumped out of your skin. All at once the anxious worms in your chest had dropped to your stomach, leaving you shivering and nauseous. You turned and saw your devil, your Commander, standing behind you. His expression almost...expectant. 

“Sir?” your voice was quiet. Maybe this Commander wasn’t real either. 

Morrison raised his brows, noting how the color had drained from your face, “Something...the matter?” For good measure he said your name, too. His voice lowering, “You look scared or something.” 

You were being stupid. You told yourself as much. You shook your head and a small smile spread over your face, “Sorry, sir, I just… I’ve been kind of out of it, lately.” You looked up at him with renewed confidence. What happened before was a dream. A strange, oddly terrifying dream. 

His eyes flicked from one side of the room to the other. It was was empty. “Really? Something bothering you?” 

You turned to set the disassembled stock of Good Friend back on the table. “Not really, I just...Must be tired.”

Two large, long fingered hands set themselves on either side of you on the table. You suddenly became aware of his closeness. His breath in your ear. 

“Haven’t been sleeping well?” his voice made your cheeks flush hot while cold sparks ran down your spine. 

You froze. He had you trapped between his chest and the table. For a brief moment you thought this wasn’t real either. Then you felt him nuzzle your neck, the slight stubble on his chin scratching you. He leaned into you, pressing his wide chest to your small back. 

You could feel his words rumbling against you, “Zero two-hundred hours. Shooting range B.”

You could scarcely find your voice to ask, “W-what?”

“Do not make me wait.”  
Just as suddenly as he’d embraced you, he left. Hesitantly, you turned your head to see him go. He didn’t bother looking back. Outside in the adjoining hall you heard him run into Torbjorn, the small, perpetually grumpy master of the workshop. You listened to him laugh and have some conversation you couldn’t make out. 

With shaking hands, you frantically tried to piece Good Friend back together. It wasn’t that you couldn’t process what just happened. Or what that meant about the other day. Or what the implications of his order was. You simply refused to do so. 

\--  
Night fell. You busied yourself with talking to the other recruits. Then exercise. A shower. Bed. The morning had been another thing that couldn’t possibly have happened. So, in your mind, it didn’t. You tried to sleep, but couldn’t. 

Eventually, the time to go to the training grounds arrived. You stared mournfully at the holo clock on your desk. Fifteen minutes passed. 

_Do not make me wait._

You shouldn’t worry, right? Because there’s no way that the Commander had gotten that close to you. Spoke to you in that tone. You could still feel him at your back. Hear his breathing in your ear. You were at once excited and horrified. 

A sudden blue flickering illuminated your face. You winced at the sudden change in light and sat up. Your holo clock blinked with a new notification. You reached over and swiped your hand through the light. 

**Late**

Late? You weren’t late. You weren’t supposed to go anywhere. You closed your eyes and tried quell the rising tide of worry in your gut. This was some misunderstanding. Ten minutes drained by. 

Your phone beeped. With some hesitation, you reached for it. The cool metal in your hand grounded you for a minute. You unlocked it and opened a text from a number you didn’t recognize.

_where are you?_  
You debated getting up, putting on clothes, and then rushing to the shooting range. What if this was really a misunderstanding? Maybe you just had a late training exercise. Or, an early one, depending on how one looked at the time. But, part of you couldn’t play stupid for much longer. The realization sank into your stomach. 

The light of the holo clock shimmered, casting strange blue shadows around your dark room. Minutes went by. 

Another text. 

_are you awake?_

You could pretend you weren’t. How would he know? Your thumb brushed the reply field for a moment. You thought to ask who this was. After all, this number wasn’t saved in your contacts. It had no ID come up with it either. 

_i can see you typing_

Your breath hitched. The small hairs on your shoulders and neck pricked. You exited the text app. 

Bleep. The next text was just your name. You could read it in the small push notification at the top of your screen. 

You bit your lip for a moment. You could...wait this out? For all he knew, you were asleep. The typing he saw was just a glitch. Or maybe you were half asleep and didn’t understand. Maybe-

_dont make me come get you_

Did he even know where your room was? Would it be that easy for him to find out? A little voice in the back of your head warned against chancing it. You didn’t think that the Commander was necessarily threatening you but he didn’t seem terribly open to discussion on the matter. 

At this point, it wouldn't have mattered what you’d done. The Strike Commander had made up his mind. If you hid from him he’d come find you. He planned to have a very intimate discussion on disobeying your superiors. It was fortunate for you that your room was so close to the range. You got to avoid seeing him truly angry at you for now. 

The lights outside were dim. You shouldered your Good Friend and a backpack of equipment. You weren’t entirely sure why. You just felt you needed an excuse to be at the range so late. It wasn’t unheard of for people to train at night. 

The night air was cool and the moon full. Light pollution from the nearby city ate the stars. The closest thing you had were the twinkling red and white lights of overhead airships. You slunk through cold blue shadows, feeling deathly afraid of the pale light from the outdoor strip lights spaced evenly along the walls. 

You came to the entrance of the shooting range. Behind the chain link fence, half lit by a dull orange glow, you could see a man. Your heart was in your throat and your steps slowed. The man noticed you first. His shoulders straightening as he stopped. 

He waved you over. It took you a second, but you forced yourself to open the gate. He waited as you plodded forward, hastily tied boots crunching on the gravel walk. You weren’t sure if he was angry or happy or what. You approached him like a wild animal that you suspected might be rabid. 

On the walk over you came to three definite conclusions. Firstly, the Commander had some kind of...thing for you. You couldn’t continue denying that. Secondly, the way he had gone about it told you he didn’t care about your feelings. He had been ordering you around. Physically trapping you even. He was not flirting with you. It seems he’d already decided the relationship you two would have. Thirdly, your respect for the man had given way to quiet fear. You didn’t know to what extent his implied warnings for disobedience went, but you feared it all the same. You were certain he’d flex his authority and position above you if it got him what he wanted. 

So, you now stood in front of him. His arms were crossed over his chest. You could only see one of his eyes from the range’s soft guidelights. It was frigid, blue, and staring down at you. 

Clutching the strap of your Good Friend and bag, eyes wide, lips pursed, you looked absolutely frightened. He loved it. His disapproving smirk broke into a smile for a just an instant. You really did look beautiful like that. So unsure, face peering up at him from the dark. He forced his previous expression. You had made him wait. You had disobeyed. That could not happen again. 

For a moment, he fancied cutting you some slack. You didn’t seem to understand your place yet. Somehow, even after he brought you into his office, you still looked at him like a Commander. As opposed to _your_ Commander. He would have to teach you better. 

Still, you had disobeyed a direct order. Regardless of the context, he hated that. Despised it, actually. He pulled out his phone and noted the time. 

“Late.” 

He noticed too, the text he’d received from Reyes. The cameras in the range were recording old footage from the other week. Gabriel was currently in the security room making sure of it. It made this little rendezvous less of a hassle. Not that he couldn’t get away with it, if he’d wanted. But it did simplify things. Although he didn’t plan this for you. You weren’t important enough for that much forethought. It was merely that Morrison wasn’t the only one having illicit meetings this night. 

You shrunk inwardly, “Sorry sir,” a small part of you still hoped that maybe, “I slept in- I um…” just maybe, this was something else. 

He considered your face for a moment. His expression unreadable. He reached out a hand, the calloused pads of his fingers brushing over your cheek. The skin rough from past battle and hard work. His thumb caressed your trembling lips. He said nothing. It was then he slipped his fingers into your hair. You felt a shiver shake your shoulders. 

This wasn’t...something else. He was too gentle. Too close. As you stared up at his half shadowed face you saw him smile. Eyes closing for a few seconds. Your own face flushing red. “S-sir-” 

Suddenly the hand in your hair became a fist. Your voice a startled whimper. He yanked you closer to him, then pulled back to force you look directly into his eyes. 

Leaning down, his voice was low but even, “Don’t ever lie to me again. Understood?” 

The grasp on your hair didn’t lessen until you squeaked out a “Yes Commander!” 

He let you go but kept his hand on the back of your head. He rubbed the now sore spot almost deliberately, applying pressure on the sensitive skin of your scalp. His smile returned and with it, the shiver in your spine. Your pulse was loud in your ears but not nearly as loud as his amused chuckle. 

“When we’re like this, just call me Jack.” 

There were tears threatening to form in the edges of your eyes. You could only nod because now your voice was afraid to leave your throat. The Strike Commander- or Jack, rather, was now looking at you with a genuinely appreciative smile. 

“Nice night out. So busy during the day,” the hand fell to the back of your neck, the pressure and his turning away urged you to keep pace with him as he walked, “Figured it’d be awhile until I had time to myself.” 

Your legs were shaky and his strides too long. He didn’t wait for you. Instead, if you lagged behind, the hand on your neck tightened it’s grip with the silent threat to drag if need be. Across the gravel field that made up the shooting range you both neared a small metal shed built into the retaining wall. The inside of which was filled with ammo and spare targets on shelves. Lit only by a lonely yellow light which hummed quietly overhead. 

There was a single bench in the center. Jack released you and sat down, checking his phone once more. The dim light above and the brightness from his screen cast insidious shadows over from over his eyes. 

“Put that shit down already,” he laughed and then patted his thigh. You reasoned he wanted you to sit on his lap. But, you weren’t sure if you wanted to make assumptions like that lest you lead him to thinking his feelings were somehow reciprocated. You shed your bag and set Good Friend against the door. The supplies within rustling and clanking as they settled. 

You decided to sit next to him but he quickly pulled you into his lap. You held yourself up awkwardly and were rigid with stress. He sighed, apparently content, and leaned against you. His chin resting on your shoulder  
“Didn’t take you for being so shy,” he teased. 

“D-didn’t think you had such bad taste,” you were worried about pissing him off, of course. But you were at a loss of what to say. 

Thankfully, he didn’t seem insulted. Instead you felt him smile into your neck. One of his hands found your knee. The hot palm of his hand burning through the fabric of your pants, feeling it slowly move up to your thigh, fingers dragging over bandaged wound. The sensation made you wince. 

“Still hurt?” you didn’t understand his tone. It was like he was...hopeful? 

“Uh, yeah. A bit. There’s um, still shrapnel-” as you spoke he pressed harder into wound. It had healed considerably since the night you returned back to the base but it remained sore. His touch elicited a dull throb that made you squirm. 

You were still tense with worry. But your heartbeat had slowed. Some part of you made peace with this reality and let you think. Had the Commander approached you in a more conventional way you wouldn’t have resisted. But this careless taking of you made you sort of ill. It was hard to reconcile the heroic golden image of Strike Commander Morrison with this man. This Jack. 

“You seem stressed,” his fingers were now rubbing painful circles into your flesh. They strayed closer and closer to your inner thigh with each rotation. 

You closed your legs tightly. “Assignments,” you muttered. Assignments. And this. This was stressful. This was far more stressful than any moral plight of conscious you had with your missions.

“Mhm,” His other arm pulled you closer against his back. You could feel his words rumbling in his chest, “No good being wound up like that,” his hand dipped between your thighs, “You should really relax,” each word punctuated with a very deliberate and forceful push. 

Your heart was set to thundering again. Your cheeks burning. You struggled slightly in his grasp. Your words turning only into quiet ums and swallows. 

He held you still with one muscled arm. The other hand continued to pry at your legs. “Come on sweetheart, open up for me,” his voice was husky and quiet. 

Despite yourself, your lower body responded quite strongly to this gentle order. “W-we shouldn't be doing this,” you didn’t have the strength to keep squeezing yourself closed, “If someone finds out-” 

“And who exactly will they report this to? _Me?_ ,” he laughed. The arm holding you still moved to your other thigh. “Let me make you feel good, sweetheart.” 

You really couldn’t help it. Your legs parted for him out of both excitement and fear. Suddenly there was a hand fiddling with the zipper of your pants. A second, worried thought struck you and your small hands flew to his to stop him. He ignored you though. His hot probing fingers slipped under the fabric, then the whole roughness of his palm slid over your mound. 

Your breath caught in your throat. He rubbed you gently, nuzzling into your neck. There was still a hand on your injured thigh. He made a point massage your shrapnel wounds at same time as your other part. It made for a bizarre mix of pain and hesitant pleasure. 

He hummed as his thick fingers explored your inner lips, apparently pleased at the wetness. As he played with you, you couldn’t help but melt into his chest. He smiled, feeling you give in. Just as you should. You were his little toy now. Resistance could be entertaining but he’d much prefer if you kept surrendering like this instead. 

You winced and whimpered at the same time. His fingers were merciless. Both in your pants and on your bandaged thigh. He applied just enough pressure to make you feel it and just slowly enough to make you want it. It only got worse when he finally paid attention to the now quite sensitive bud. The coarseness of his fingertip as he traced slow, methodical shapes over it was undoubtedly going to be your undoing. 

The warm build of your pleasure had started in earnest. Your hands grasped at his forearms. He pressed his lips into your neck. Then he was nudging your shirt down off your shoulder with his nose. Then with a cry you felt him bite sharply down into your flesh. The pressure of his teeth increasing until you felt your skin yield. The bite burned as his saliva mixed with your blood. 

All the while he kept the same, excruciating pace. The cruel fingers on your bandaged thigh made similar motions into your covered wound. The pain kept your fluttering climax away for some time. 

“How’s that feel, sweetheart?” he was speaking into your ear. You could hear his deep exhale as he grew more aroused himself. You could feel it to, beneath you. For a hazy moment in your mind’s eye you wondered what he might command of you next. 

His ministrations never increased in speed or intensity. Instead he only moaned in your ear. Quietly saying your name. Asking you if you were getting closer. He was perfectly content to torture you like this. Even if you never reached the peak, it was all the same to him. 

But your climax was inevitable. It took time, both from his pace and his insistence on playing with your injury. When you did finally come, your breaths were shallow and couldn’t keep still in his grasp. You kept your lips shut tightly, stifling any noises that might arise from your throat. This disappointed him. So, he moaned for you. Loudly.

“Oh sweetheart. You cumming for me, baby?” You felt relief and shame as the waves washed through your body. He kept drawing wicked circles into your now overly sensitive bud, “Feel good sweetheart? Does it feel good?” 

He didn’t stop rubbing you. It hurt now. The last vestiges of your climax giving way to slight stinging. You took a sharp breath, “Jack- please…” you weren’t sure what you were saying. You’d come completely undone in his hands. 

This seemed to satisfy him though. His hand withdrew from your pants and the pressure on your wound lessened. He leaned heavily against you, smiling and licking your blood off his lips. 

“You ship out in a few days,” he said casually, “Won’t see you for awhile. Make sure you think about me while I’m away.” The way he said it almost sounded sweet. 

You sat in his lap, trying to catch your breath as he checked his phone. You could still feel his own arousal underneath you. Though you were loathe to admit it, the thought of it had you tingling and warm again. Nervous too- what would he have you do with it? What did you _want_ to do with it? 

Suddenly you were being pushed off. His focus on tapping some message into his phone. “See you around,” he muttered your name, half paying attention. 

You stumbled away from, confused and flustered. You stood awkwardly, thighs still trembling. He ignored you. Your hands shakily redid your zipper and straightened your shirt. You could feel the still stinging bite mark on your shoulder and the wet spot it was making through your shirt. Fuck- he’d actually made you bleed! 

You snatched up your bag and Good Friend. You kept looking over your shoulder as you left, not feeling sure if you should actually leave. Yet, you were too horrified and ashamed to stay. Had you really just… opened yourself to your Commander like that? After the way he treated you, grabbing your hair and still you just turned to putty in his hands like some kind of slut. 

Your face was red. Tears had successfully breached your eyelashes and fell down your cheeks. You kept to the shadows all the way back to your room. 

-  
Jack wouldn’t leave until a bit later. He’d wanted to go a bit further. Being left with his own problem was irritating. But the sudden news from Reyes was as good as a cold shower. Minutes after you’d gone he walked to the edge of the shooting range. Near the gate he found the Blackwatch Commander leaning against a wall.

“New toy, Morrison?” 

The blonde smiled, a smear of blood still on his bottom lip. “Maybe I’ll share after I’ve broken it in.” 

The darker man snorted, “You think I want your fucking leftovers?” but he was smirking. 

Then it was to business again. Their conversation quickly became serious. 

And you, quickly forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the smut happens- and then finalllyyyy requests. I forgot how fun it is to write dirty things- >:3 no hand kink here no sir nope you saw nothing coughcough


	5. Sinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Commander Morrison is a bad person.

Why is it that some people become monsters? I don’t mean people who are merely selfish and ruthless. No, that’s very easy to understand. That’s survival. I mean actual monsters. The ones that would do harm for no other reason than their own amusement. The cruel ones. 

Surely, that behavior is some defect. Like an animalistic trait. A kind of holdover from more primitive days. Humans like to define themselves by their ability to love and all that. The ability to try to be to be altruistic. Sympathy, remorse, kindness, forgiveness. These are all higher things. Anger, vengeance, malice, and cruelty. Those are lower and lesser. While humans are filled with both, it’s the higher emotions that make them what they are. Right?

…

I worry this isn’t so. The distinction between something like justice and revenge seems arbitrary. Hate is often as illogical and fanatical as love. Both describable with “passion”. Desires of any kind are inherently selfish, no matter how one spins it. And then- can you be unknowingly evil? Ignorance would imply you couldn't fathom what harm your actions cause and what they mean. But to be evil, you would have to understand. The pain you’d done unto other people. What you did to ruin them. Tear them upside. To enjoy it you’d have to care. 

But, maybe this isn’t so. I am not one of you. What I know is very little. But in watching, I feel that I know just one thing. 

Jack is starting to care about you. 

 

5 || Sinking

You had gone back to your room crying. You didn’t know what to do with yourself. You imagined scrubbing his touch off in the shower. Perhaps run screaming to Vanta or maybe Cao. You thought briefly of shooting Morrison. After all, he’d just… And clearly you didn’t want to… Isn’t that what happened? Right? 

More than anything, you felt ashamed. Ashamed you didn’t hate it. You recalled the warmth of his skin on yours. The gravel of his voice in your ear. Heat surged into your cheeks and lower . Your knees buckled and you hit floor in front of your bed. 

It’s not as if he forced you. Yes, he’d grabbed you. Yes, his words carried some kind implied threat. But… You let him do it. It had excited you. You were wet before his hands were in your pants. 

Really now, it’s not as if you were some meek little girl that caved because she was afraid of her boss. You weren’t a pushover. You had killed people. More than one for trying to touch you like your Commander had. If you really wanted him to stop you know that you could have made him. You could have easily fought him. You might not have won, but you could have made sure he knew his advances weren’t wanted. But instead, you’d opened yourself to him. Enjoyed the rough feel of his calloused fingers on you. Fantasized about going further than just touching. You _let_ him do whatever he wanted and that’s what upset you. 

You were ashamed that you weren’t ashamed. That you weren’t overpowered. If you were being honest with yourself, all this fussing about was because of how carelessly he’d sent you away afterwards. You weren’t necessarily a stranger to acting on lust alone but… he didn’t even look at you when he was done. 

You spent the rest of the night in a cycle of ripping your room apart and then putting it carefully back together. You had enough time in denial, so you had moved on to anger. Anger at yourself for being so slutty and weak. Anger at Commander Morrison for being so perverted and awful and attractive. 

By sunrise, you were a mess. Your room too. You ran out of energy to complete the cycle and so you sat on a bare mattress, your sheets and blankets on the floor. You fell onto your back and stared miserably at the ceiling. When your alarm went off you almost smashed it as you silenced it. 

You flew by the next stages rather quickly. It only took the half hour that would have been your breakfast to go through bargaining. You had unsuccessfully tried to negotiate terms with yourself. Not seeing the Commander. Not thinking about him. Focusing purely on your job at Overwatch. If you could just forget tonight you would- Occasionally you’d flip back to denial and anger. This didn’t happen. You would wake up and the night would only be a dream. That disgusting pig fucking toying with you like that would get what’s coming to him. What if you asked to be transferred to something like Blackwatch? Then you could- 

The holoclock on your desk blinked blue, the numbers on it’s shimmering, immaterial face counting down your day. By lunch, you’d settled into a quiet daze. Not quite napping but not really awake. You replayed every interaction you ever had with your Commander. Texts buzzed your phone and notifications crowded the numbers hovering above your desk. Not a single one was from him though, so you ignored them. 

The sun was setting again. By now, you had read your messages. Vanta wondered if you slept through the whole day. Cao mentioned the possibility of some big meeting late at night. Others were just chatter and rumors. You had come to accept that the Commander was not who you thought he was. And that you were apparently not who you thought you were either. 

You ran your hands idly over your thighs, wondering what the Strike Commander was doing now. Your fingers slipped under fabric and you imagined what he thought of your breasts. You hoped he liked them. You thought of him squeezing them. The hickey, or rather the bite on your neck pulsed pleasantly in time with your heart. You touched it and tried to recall his smell. Did he wear cologne or was that just what he was like naturally? Maybe an aftershave and a little bit of sweat. 

You fell asleep comforting yourself. Your thoughts morphing from licentious to worried as you sunk into your dreams. Typical nightmares and memories replaced the imagined Commander and his sinful touches. It appeared that you had finished mourning…something. Maybe it was the death of an idol. How could you look up to the Commander now? Maybe it was your dream of Overwatch. You had thought this place was different, so unlike the rest of the world. The people in it were golden gods, heroes among men. Maybe it was your own innocence? 

No- no. 

You were not innocent. 

\--

 

There was indeed a mandatory meeting late at night. Cao had been correct. The announcement over the intercom system woke you. The sleep had been brief and not terribly restful. You managed to change your shirt and then smooth your hair. You had ten minutes to get to the specified conference room. You didn’t bother trying to image what this was about. 

In the halls you passed many people. Among them was Commander Morrison. He was in full regalia and not so subtly pushing past those who were too slow to move for him. You forced yourself to stare ahead and keep your face impassive. Even if he spoke to you, what would you say? What could you say? At least, out in the open like this. Your heart pulsed cold as you fretted about how you’d keep your cool were you to talk to him now. 

He didn’t even consider looking at you. 

\--

Inside the crowded conference hall you noted that most of the recruits were present. They all clustered in little cliques and whispered among themselves. You were no exception. Reflexively you found Vanta and Cao. Cao looked pensive and his eyes were clearly glued on Dr. Ziegler- who was wearing a kind of strange outfit? 

She was in an Overwatch uniform. A pair of mechanical- you could only describe them some manner of wings, were attached to her back. She carried a strange staff in one hand and was gesturing angrily at the Blackwatch Commander in the other. You couldn’t hear what they were saying. 

Commander Reyes apparently always wore the same thing. A black knit hat and what you were pretty sure was the closest thing to a uniform Blackwatch had. Beside him was a young man wearing a... was that a cowboy hat? That couldn’t have been regulation standard. You squinted your eyes and your scrutiny dropped lower. That was one hell of a belt buckle. And yes, he totally did have spurs on his shoes. Well then. You didn’t know what to make of that. 

The man noticed your staring. He smirked and tipped his hat in your direction. You flinched back and took your gaze elsewhere. So many people. You recognized the face and could faintly hear the bubbly accented voice of that pilot who’d occasionally flown the drop ships. There was that odd, moody looking cyborg covered up in a black hoodie, arms folded. The small scruffy man who lorded over the weapons workshops. And many teammates and technicians you’d met on missions.

A veritable giant of a man in almost full amour awkwardly waded through the crowd towards the front where both Commanders had gathered. In his wake followed a woman you didn’t recognize. She toted a rifle on one shoulder. As she turned, you realized a young girl was holding onto her other arm. Though she was no baby, the girl looked terribly small and scared in the midst of the others. She had the red rimmed eyes and pout of a child kept up far too late. 

The woman approached Morrison first. You still couldn’t hear them over the noise. For a moment you were immediately reminded of some documentary you had seen on a pride of lions. Maybe it was the way Morrison’s face contorted into a snarl, apparently agitated at the site of the little girl and her mother’s irritated glare. Or perhaps the way Reyes bristled at whatever was being said to the woman. The darker man becoming hostile and turning on other. Hands reached up with the potential for violence. You watched in amazement as the woman cowed both of them. Her shoulders straightening and an accusatory finger taking turns jabbing at both of their chests. In turn, each Commander seemed to back down, daring to trade daggers with their eyes only when the woman turned from them.

She crouched low to whisper something to her daughter. Her hands smoothing the girl’s jet black hair in that worried way mothers do. You felt guilty then, though you weren’t sure why. Watching hurt your heart. Your eyes dropped to your feet as you tried to recall your own parents’ faces. 

It was hard. Had it already been that long? The memories were painfully indistinct. 

Your head snapped up at the sound of thickly accented shouting, “Everyvone, please be quiet!” The man in armor called for the room’s attention. 

Bodies moved and shifted as people settled in. You noticed the cowboy hat drifting toward the door. Though you now were behind a few people, you could see the young girl was going with him. Apparently mother lion trusted that Doc Holliday wannabe with her cub. Maybe with good reason. He kept the girl close and didn’t hesitate to shove away anyone who might so much as bump into her. 

You lost all train of thought as soon as your eyes turned back to the Strike Commander. You ignored whatever he was saying. Your mind was too full of last night to take in anymore of his voice now. 

\--

The meeting didn’t last long. You walked out of it completely oblivious to the agitation in the air. Vanta and Cao talked in hushed whispers. Without realizing it, you’d followed them to the infirmary where Cao kindly reiterated the the key points of the meeting. 

An Overwatch team doing security detail for some congressmen messed up. Messed up real bad actually. In fact, instead of protecting him, one of the members of the team was caught on camera killing the man. His squadmates responded to this murder by allowing the mob outside to break in and effectively framing the violent protesters. This was at least five kinds of problematic. 

It really did not look good for an Overwatch agent to be an unrepentant murderer. Nor for Overwatch to be publically known as the ones who supplied the man’s personal bodyguards for the week. The cover up didn’t help either. In fact, it made Overwatch look a bit suspicious. Then of course, the governmental authorities were calling to poke around in Overwatch’s affairs to gather evidence and the like. The international nature of the institution and the very existence of Blackwatch made this request an issue. But the worst thing was, this squad had disobeyed the Strike Commander by acting deliberately against their own orders. 

And he was fucking livid about it. 

Most of the meeting was Commander Morrison just barely keeping himself from shouting. His poorly contained rage bleeding heavy into the tone and choice of his words. Talk of damage control. Loyalty. Changes that were to be made immediately to the command structure to prevent this from ever happening again. He spoke a great deal about how _disgraceful_ the team’s conduct was. He neglected to mention what would become of them. 

The whole thing was quite worrisome. The very fact that this had happened seemed to confirm the other rumors too, just by the virtue of it’s existence. Though as far as either Vanta or Cao could tell, this wouldn’t really affect you three. Not today at least. Any measures Commander Morrison had in mind couldn’t possibly be implemented before the upcoming mission to the Detroit area. Besides, it sounded a lot like he was just blowing off hot air. 

\--  
\--

You had one day before Detroit. Something about suspicious Omnic activity in the area. Or was it rising violence from gang wars? You didn’t bother to remember. 

On this cool night, you were lying in your bed fiddling with your phone. You thought of nothing in particular. Instead, you drifted from one half notion to another, eyes drooping. Just as you dared to picture Morrison again, you were startled by a text message.

_office. Ten minutes_

You sat up, shivering and excited. Was that Morrison? It had to be, right? Was he finally calling you back? Now that you had acknowledged and accepted what happened before, your apprehension in meeting him stemmed from a different place. 

You dressed quickly, sensing that this was not the time to show any kind of “disobedience”. Before you realized it, you were wandering the halls. Lost. You didn’t actually remember where his office was. You were nervous, but dared to ask anyway. Given concise instructions, you walked faster than you would ever like to admit. 

\--

Morrison was sitting on his desk. What a shit week this had turned out to be. Thank god he had something to take his mind off of it for a moment. You knocked on the door. He called you in and in you came. 

With an unnecessarily dramatic flourish he tossed his phone onto his chair. Standing, he reached for you. He still looked just as angry as in the meeting. So angry that you couldn’t help but flinch from his hand. 

Unsure and a little unsteady on your legs, you greeted him, “Sir.”

He sighed. That’s right. He hadn’t quite broken you in yet. His eyes seemed to soften as he regarded you in all your unkempt glory. “I told you, sweetheart,” he moved toward you, “Call me Jack.” 

His hands went to your waist and pulled you into him. Your skin burned hot under his touch. He leaned down, nestling his nose in your hair and inhaling deeply. 

“Fuck, what a pain in the ass,” he exhaled, “All this bullshit has me wound up.” His hands slid from your waist over your ass, “But I bet you can help with that, can’t you babe?”   
God, he must always just smell like this. Your face was pressed into his shirt. Good thing too, you could feel how red your cheeks were getting. There were a lot of things you could’ve thought about at this moment. Your feelings about how he treated you before. The apparent expectation that you would just open yourself again. The little case of how not very ethical it was for superior and subordinate to pursue this relationship. Speaking of, what was this relationship? You two weren’t… together. But, it’s not like he ever clearly defined what this was. Just inappropriate booty calls? Friends with benefits? Were you even friends? 

The questions could go on if you let them. You knew that if you did, they’d spoil the moment. So you pushed those thoughts from your mind. Intending to only focus on the tingling heat gathering in your depths. Or, tried to, at least. There was a single question still holding you back from the sea of wanton self indulgence. 

You pulled yourself away from him slightly, peering up at his face with a cautious smile, “It seems like a real headache,” you wanted to choose your words carefully, “I can’t believe that really happened.” 

He snorted, his fingers digging into your waist, “Fuckin’ idiots. Getting caught using _my_ equipment. On _my_ time. Against _my_ orders,” his voice rumbled harshly in his throat. 

You were nervous. It’s not that you were afraid of pissing him off. Sure, he’d sort of been threatening you. But that was just talk. He clearly got off on being some big, scary, domineering bad ass. That was fine. You could roll with that. The rough grabbing, the biting, all of it. It was admittedly a little out of your wheelhouse, but you were determined to play ball. _It’s not like he’d actually ever really hurt you._

Bless your heart, you genuinely believed that. 

“So,” how could you phrase this? You wanted to know how casual this was. You couldn’t bear the thought of being kicked out with a single goodbye and then ignored again. Without knowing the boundaries, you didn’t know how to keep your heart from blundering into feelings that weren’t really there. 

Before you could ask anything his lips were on yours. His tongue in your mouth. He broke for breath and to complain, “How the fuck could they think they’d get away with it?” Kiss. “Don’t they know what the fuck that makes us look like?” Kiss. “Like we fucking planned it.” 

You never thought someone could be a selfish kisser until now. It made you try to pull him back to you until you were satisfied. He didn’t care, though. Your body would be his catharsis. What you wanted or what pleased you was irrelevant. 

“Now the fucking feds want to know where their bodies are. Ah, shit.”

You froze up. He continued to kiss you, oblivious to how still you were. The heat that had been growing under you skin now cooled considerably. Worry knotted itself in your chest. Now, actions had consequences. You knew that. A lot of military organizations had harsh consequences. Sometimes, even death. But, the news only broke this morning. There was supposed to be a trial before… Overwatch wasn’t that kind of place was it? The Strike Commander wouldn’t have just- not without a trial, right? 

Concern replaced arousal. Your voice was quiet, “Hey uh, Jack?” You had to know. You joined Overwatch because it was different. Your whole reason for being here, working through your doubts, and even accepting your Commander’s “advances”, you only were able to because Overwatch was-

Jack’s thumb pushed past your lips. Stopping any more words from coming, “This mouth of your has better uses, right sweetheart?” He wasn’t going to say your name now. Only good girls got to hear their names. The rough pad of his finger rubbed against your tongue. Saliva dribbled down your chin.

With his hand holding your jaw and thumb in your mouth, he moved to lean against his desk. You had to follow or else be dragged by your head. You weren’t aroused anymore. Not in the slightest. Your eyes stared up at his smiling face. 

“What? We had fun the other night. You gonna be coy now?” He let go of your jaw. The same hand brushed your hair back so he could see your face. You looked frightened. Actually, you looked downright horrified. Like he was some kind of monster. He rather liked that. He liked that a lot.

Your hands were pushing against his chest. Alarm bells ringing in your mind. You wanted to get up and leave. But under those cold blue eyes you couldn’t move. You felt a hand take firm hold of your hair, pressing down on your head. 

“Get on your knees, sweetheart.” 

He increased the pressure until you relented. Thankfully, for your sake, you did so just quickly enough that it didn’t irritate him. He positioned your face into the bulge of his pants. You’d fantasized about this before. But, now you didn’t want it. Your shoulders quaked as he forced your lips to press into him. 

“Not in the mood to wait,” he grunted. The other hand fumbled with his belt. “I’ve had such a bad week. Now, do your job, alright?” 

God, his eyes looked so hateful. You pulled his arousal from his pants with trembling hands. Your small fingers wrapping around it’s girth. His smile returned when you brought your lips to the head.

“That’s a good girl,” then he finally said your name. “Let’s see if you can suck cock better than you can shoot, huh?” 

You hated yourself because the wet heat was returning. You hated how slowly taking him into your mouth, feeling along the ridge with your tongue, was making you ache. You hated that a not insignificant part of you worried you’d disappoint him. 

Ever vocal about his own pleasure, Jack moaned as you took him deeper into your mouth. He leaned his head back, keeping a firm hold of your hair. The pace was slow at first. He wasn’t interested in being licked or teased. He just wanted to fuck your mouth. Whenever you pulled off of him for too long he’d use the hand in your hair to force his cock back in. He didn’t care when he went too hard or too deep. If you choked, that was your problem. As long as you didn’t puke, he would continue to be amused by your gagging. 

Tears pricked your eyes while you struggled to relearn how breathe only through your nose. As he “gently” encouraged you to pick up the pace by thrusting into your mouth, you had to steady yourself with a hand his thigh. His satisfied humming filled the room the more he got into it. The speed and force increasing with your difficulty to breathe. 

“Watch your fucking teeth,” he hissed in warning. 

Spit was now spilling over the sides your lips. He looked down at your flushed face with a lazy smile. It was a shame all those nice little cuts were gone. He hoped the your next assignment would bring you back more banged up. As it was, the only wound he saw was the one he’d made into your neck. His free hand reached for it. Pulling back the collar of your shirt to reveal the still puffy and irritated indentation of his teeth in your flesh. It was a nice bruise, purplish in the yellowed light of the office. Must still hurt too, you flinched and whimpered when he dug his finger into it.

That was better. That’s what was missing. That cry of actual pain that hummed around his cock as you sucked him. He was getting closer now. Two fingers dug at your wound. Tears trickled down your cheeks. In just a moment he’d-

Beeping. 

Jack jerked his head to one side, “Fuck, seriously?” It was his phone. You hoped he’d just push you off and send you away again. You weren’t sure you had the strength to leave on your own. 

He sighed and awkwardly reached for the back of the chair. When he grabbed it, he wheeled it around the side of the desk so he could snag his phone. His other hand was still fisted tightly in your hair. 

He answered and kept your head still, his cock brushing the back of your throat, “Busy, Reyes.” 

You couldn’t breathe. Your hands scrambled against him and you tried to pull away. He relented only after your panicked scratching at his pants got a little too desperate. 

“What?” you couldn’t hear the other voice on the phone. You didn’t care, in that moment. Jack gave you barely a few seconds to clear your throat and breath before he was fucking your face again. He sounded irritated and tired, “Well then, do it. I don’t care, honestly. We don’t have time to wait for them to make it all official and shit.” 

The rest of the Strike Commander’s contribution to the conversation were mere grunts and half syllables. He fucked your mouth faster until he pulled you off without warning. His hand let go of your hair so he could better direct his release onto your face. You closed your eyes, feeling the hot lashes fall across your lips, your cheeks, and onto your shirt. Then, as if he hadn’t used you enough, he wiped himself off on your cheek and his free hand in your hair. 

With that, he was done. He put himself away, dismissing you with a wave of his has hand. He turned more of his attention to the phone call. His satisfied sigh apparently prompting some question from the man on the other end. He chuckled and mentioned taking a break. 

You weren’t sure what to do. You stood quickly and used the inside of your shirt to clean your face. You felt a combination of guilty arousal and shame. Dimly, you thought prostitutes were treated a bit better than...that. 

With an unsteady heart and no words, you left. 

\--  
\--

Airship en route to Detroit. Mild turbulence. At least this time your assignment was stateside. You had tried not to think too hard about what Morrison had done. You were still upset, of course. Your mind was filled to the brim with doubts about Overwatch and what you were doing, on top of apparently being consigned as the Strike Commander’s fleshlight. The situation was disagreeable. 

You had nestled yourself into a far seat on the ship. The conversation rose and fell around you at intervals. Vanta was busy with someone else. Cao was asleep. You didn’t dare wake him, it seemed the travel was the only time his eyes weren’t peeled open. Even if you could speak to either of them, what would you say? You were engaged in a highly inappropriate sexual relationship with the Strike Commander? You were mostly okay but he was being a bit too rough now? The Strike Commander might have had the rogue team executed sans trial? Hell, they probably wouldn’t believe you even if you brought it up. 

Ignoring the _other_ ethical concerns you had with Morrison, there was the matter of boundaries. Part of you felt it was your fault. You’d just been going along with this. You didn’t have any conversation with Morrison about what he could and could not do with you. The choking you with his dick- yeah that wasn’t going to happen again. You really couldn’t breathe then. After another half hour of deliberation, you resolved to talk to him when you got back.

\--  
Well, the talk might have to wait. You got to the base of operations set up in an old factory. Everyone stretched and chatted while waiting for orders. You set your stuff down for a minute. Thought briefly about what ration packs you’d snack on for lunch. 

And then the building blew up. 

You might have been surprised if it wasn’t for all the blood and searing pain now eating your side. No one knew when or how the detonation charges were planted. There were more than a handful of guesses as to why. Even more pertaining to who did it. 

It happened so quickly. One minute you were standing there, the next you were under concrete and metal. You were in shock, to be sure. Not emotional shock. No, the medical kind. You were hemorrhaging at a pretty rapid rate. Blood pressure plummeting. The noise of the blast had you hearing a single toned buzz. 

You might have noticed the dust clouds rolling over the bodies of your squad mates. Noted the ones who were able to get up, the ones who weren’t. Admired Cao’s sudden and decisive actions to start helping the injured. Worried about the large, twisted shard of sheet metal embedded in your side. The heavy concrete slab crushing into your shoulder. How amazingly close it was to having crushed your head instead. 

Whatever you saw, you wouldn’t remember it. Or the next week and a half. It was unfortunate, to be sure. But, at least the mission was cancelled. 

\--  
\--

Your home for a long while was the infirmary. Due to the extent of your injuries, you got your own little room. For three days, Dr. Zeigler had slowly reduced your pain medication. You were finally remembering full days. On this particular night, you were quite lucid. 

Cao told you some of what happened. Though, adrenaline had a funny way of poking holes in one’s memory. The explosives were concealed under the floor and in the rafters. It was apparently placed sometime after the first team had arrived to set up. It’s detonation was likely from afar. You didn’t really care though. You asked about Vanta, then your Good Friend. Admittedly, in your head you wanted to ask about GF first. Both were fine, so you didn’t feel guilty for too long.

On top of the awful, oozy wound in your side you also had inhaled a great deal of powdered concrete. You were still coughing up quite a bit of gray plephm. 

Cao fussed over your charts, his words quiet but caring, “You are feeling better? The pain is good? I can give more-”

“I’m alright, Cao,” you laughed but it devolved into a cough. “Thanks, though.” 

News of the explosion reached everyone. Naturally, the Strike Commander was made aware of casualties. 

“They still haven’t found them,” the young man sighed, his slender fingers ghosting over the console of the strange machine next to you. “No one died but- Peirson and Gu were hurt pretty bad. I think… I think Peirson might need a prosthetic. But we’re waiting to see if his nerves reconnect properly, first.” 

You saw the nervous energy in the small twitches of his fingers, “It’s good everyone made it. We should focus on that, for now.” You tried to reassure him you were alright. That everything would be alright. The dark rings under his eyes seemed even deeper and darker today. 

All the injured agents had received a visit from the Strike Commander, as per usual. But you’d been asleep every time he went to see you. 

For a while, you made idle chit chat with Cao. He seemed encouraged by what he called a “good demonstration of mental faculties following intense trauma”. You too were glad you didn’t have brain damage. Probably. Hopefully. You debated confiding in him about your worries from so many days ago. But, you decided against it. Not Cao. He was too tired. Working under the esteemed Dr. Zeigler must have tough. Not to mention he was expected to carry out assignments with the rest of your squad. 

Word had made it back that you were awake and talking. 

Cao encouraged you to rest. The medical team had done a fantastic job of putting you back together. Ribs were bruised, but not broken. Internals all where they ought to be. Skin would definitely scar, but for now the worst of it had already been stitched and mostly healed. Your shoulder was going to be sore for awhile, but Cao was more than willing to give you whatever painkillers you wanted. Perhaps, a little too willing. He did genuinely mean well, though. 

The Strike Commander was coming to see you. He knew exactly what room Angela had hidden you in. Deliberately. Away from him. 

You let your body sink into the fluffy sheets. Cao couldn’t help but check your IV drip again. Then your vitals. And your stitches. Did you need something to drink? No? Do you want him to find your phone? No? Are you sure? Just in case, he showed you where the call button for assistance was on the hospital bed frame. 

You just smiled and tried to get him to rest. You may have been the one in the hospital but he kind of looked like he was falling apart. He cared so much. That was another thing wasn’t it? If he knew how the Strike Commander had been treating you- well he’d probably worry an ulcer into his gut. Something about his meek manner told you he wouldn’t get the whole rough sex thing. It didn’t help that Morrison had been too rough. And, kind of an asshole about it. But it would be fine. You’d talk to that jerk soon and set some ground rules before this continued. 

Indeed, Cao didn’t know about the Strike Commander. But Dr. Zeigler did. Dr. Zeigler knew the Strike Commander very well. She knew when he had found a new toy. She often was the one who had to fix the toy when he broke it. If she could fix it. 

So, when Dr. Zeigler saw the blonde man in blue striding through the infirmary, she didn’t need to ask what he was doing. Their eyes locked for a second as they passed. He wasn’t pleased that she was hiding his things. But, he wasn’t going to press the issue at this time. Angela had done everything in her power to heal you. Now, she could only faintly hope Jack wasn’t going to undo it all. 

The door to your room opened. Both you and Cao were surprised to see the Strike Commander. He nodded to Cao, “Agent.” 

The difference between the two men was incredible. Cao was so much smaller, thinner, and just _lesser_ than Morrison. He fidgeted nervously under the other’s stern gaze, “Sir.” 

“How’s she doing?” his eyes fell on you. 

You weren’t ready to talk to him yet. A brief memory of his fascination with the shrapnel in your leg flicked by. You tried to ignore it. 

“Much improved!” the man in scrubs opened his mouth to speak more but was cut off. 

“I think Angela mentioned she needed help. If you’re done here-” he knew he wouldn’t be questioned. Not by this little mouse of a man. 

Cao looked unsure for a moment. Then, he bid you farewell. You weren’t ready to be alone with Morrison yet. Your heartbeat increased. The monitor next to you gave it away. If the young doctor understood or noticed anything out of the ordinary, he didn’t show it. He shuffled out the door quickly.

The Strike Commander leaned his head out, holding the door open with one hand. Again, he made eye contact with Dr. Zeigler. She knew him well enough to understand the wordless order. When the Commander closed the door, he was confident that she would clear the immediate area. Just in case. 

When the door closed, the heart monitor’s reading spiked. You couldn’t help it. This was, what- the third time he’d trapped you? You really weren’t ready to see him. You were still all sorts of hurt and angry and confused. The Commander pulled a small stool over to your bedside and sat down on it, fixing you with a pleased smile. 

He said your name. Very sweetly, because you were nervous. He liked when you were nervous, but right now he had to make sure his toy was still in working order. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?” That and how could he pass up a peek of your new injuries? He would have liked to see them fresh, but he’d have to settle. 

“I’m- I mean I’m not dead,” you laughed. And winced. Laughing hurt. Breathing still kind of hurt, but laughing really did. 

He smiled at your grimace, “I’m glad. I was worried.” He rested a hand on your thigh. 

You reasoned that maybe his pity for you would give you the upper hand in this conversation. Since, well, you couldn’t avoid having it forever. He’d already come to you so you might as well have the talk now. 

That was sound logic. If Jack Morrison felt pity, it might have worked. 

“Jack, can we-” you looked at him, suddenly chilled by his blue eyes, “Could we...talk?” 

His smile faltered for a second, “What about, sweetheart?” 

You really didn’t like that pet name. “So, I’m just… I want us to be on the same page with _this_ ,” you gestured to the two of you. Mistake. Shoulder burning. 

His fingers tapped impatiently on your leg, “I’m not sure what you mean?” 

There was something in his expression that kept you from holding his gaze for more than a moment. “Like, um. I think we need some rules.”

“Rules?” 

You squirmed. It was like his fingers were digging into your side even though his hands were plainly just resting on your legs. “Yeah. Or, just like, boundaries. Because, I really didn’t like how it went before,” you looked down, “I couldn’t breathe and like um, I don’t like just being kicked out. It felt...I just didn’t like it at all.” 

Oh. Oh, how cute. One hand rubbed his chin, long fingers splaying over his mouth. You thought what you liked _mattered_. He kept quiet but nodded. Absolutely amused. 

He seemed to be smiling. So, that was a good sign right? You smiled too. “I mean like, it just makes me feel like a… like a cheap whore or something,” you laughed. He laughed too. 

He was not laughing for the same reason. 

He got up from the stool and nudged your legs over so he could sit on the bed. He was still chuckling to himself, “God, you’re a bit stupid.” 

“Huh?” you were still smiling nervously. Though, the more he looked at you like that, the more the corners of your mouth turned down. You tried to shrink back from the hand reaching for your face. His calloused fingers gently stroked your cheek. 

He didn’t know how you were still that naive. It really was adorable. He wouldn’t mind if you stayed this way. Staring dumbly up at him with those big expressive eyes of yours. He wondered what he ought to do with you. Should he just break you now? Or did he have the patience to train you like a puppy and keep that amusing air of ignorance? 

“I just don’t understand what our relationship is,” you admitted. You dared to look up at him now. 

“Our relationship?”

“Yeah?” Were you an occasional booty call? Did he want this to go further? Either way, you had to let him know your limits. This might get dangerous otherwise. Your feelings might get the wrong kinds of mixed up if he continued treating you so carelessly. 

“I’m your Commander.” 

Obviously! But that’s not what you meant. Your brow furrowed in mild frustration. His hand slid through your hair, still gentle. “No, I mean-”

“ **I’m your Commander** ,” he said it again. His tone darker. Dangerous. “I give you orders. You obey them. It’s really simple.” 

You swallowed and kept your face calm. Something was wrong. “O-okay, but, like we aren’t _together_ or anything like that. We don’t know each other at all. So, if we’re gonna continue this… this thing, we’ve gotta set some rules, alright?”

This was quickly becoming not so cute. Now it was irritating. 

You squeaked when the hand in your hair hauled you half out of your bed. You twisted in his grasp and your small hands pulled at his. “I set the rules. You follow them. This isn’t a difficult concept, is it?” 

“Jack, stop! That hurts!” he pulled you a bit closer, “ _Stop!_ Jack, I’m serious!” your voice was growing shrill and desperate. 

“I’m serious, too. What is it about this that’s so hard to understand?” 

You dug your nails into his skin and scratched at him. This pissed him off. “Jack, please! I don’t want this- not if you’re gonna be like this!” A little mean and rough? You could get off on that. But this was genuinely scaring you. 

And for a good reason.

He laughed, “I don’t really give a shit about what you want. I’m your Commander,” the other hand found the wound in your side, “You do what I say. When I say it,” the fingers digging into your tender, aching stitches, “What part of this isn’t making sense?” 

You hit him. Right across the jaw. It split his lip. Your heart thundered in your chest as you tried to pull away from him. He didn’t budge. If anything, the hands holding you just gripped that much tighter. You screamed out for help.

But no one came. 

Jack’s tongue flicked over his lip. He was bleeding. “Insubordination,” he hissed, “Looks like you need some discipline,” the hand left your side and wrapped around your neck. 

You were panicked now. You kicked at the blankets and tried to hit him again. He ignored it and merely started to squeeze your throat. Your thrashing and whimpering quickly turned in gasping and trembling. You couldn’t breathe. The edges of your vision tinged black. Your mouth was wide open in a choked scream. 

He regarded you for a long moment. Watching your eyes roll back and the frantic scratching at his hands become even more uncoordinated and desperate. He considered fucking you. That would show you your place. But, he wasn’t really in the mood for it. Not right now, anyway. Not in this stuffy hospital room. 

He relaxed the pressure on your throat. You rasped and inhaled deeply. The threat of his hand was still there. The other moved to wipe away the tears now steadily falling down your cheek. 

He shushed you with mock sincerity, “I know, sweetheart, I know. You’re sorry, aren’t you?” he leaned down and kissed your lips. 

You whimpered and started to struggle again. The pressure at your neck increased and you went dead still. 

“I’m your Commander. You get that, right?” 

You nodded, eyes squeezed shut. 

“How about you give me a “Yes sir?”, huh?” 

Your words shook as much your shoulders did. Tears burned hot in your eyes. The pain from your disturbed injury in your side was nothing compared to how painfully your heart throbbed in your chest. 

You could feel his breath on your lips, “Well? You understand, right? Let’s hear it then.” The harsh edge in his voice was enough of a threat on it’s own.

“Yes sir.” Your own voice was small and quiet. 

“Yes sir what?” 

A sobbed wracked your slight frame, “Yes sir, I understand, sir.” 

You felt his lips on your cheek. He was smiling. “That’s a good girl.” 

Now, there were a few ways this could play out. He could keep tormenting you. An option which would be rather amusing. He could simply leave you. You might do something stupid then, like run your mouth. Or he could comfort you. You always responded well to his praise. And besides, obedience was easiest to obtain when it was voluntary. 

You didn’t believe the gentle kisses and touches on your face. Which was smart, because they were lies. When you cried and tried to hide your face in the sheets he didn’t try to drag you out. Rather, he pulled away and ran his hands down your stomach. 

He said your name. The sound of it made you shudder. “Open your legs for me sweetheart,” he whispered his orders now. 

You were afraid. It was written plainly on the screen monitoring your heartbeat beside the bed. But you complied. You were in no shape to fight. Even less of a state of mind to do so. 

Fabric shifted and you felt his skin on yours. Hot, calloused fingers played along your legs and thighs. Though Jack would have liked to prod your injuries and smile at your tears, he knew he needed to do this. This would soften you up. A necessary part of breaking in a new toy without actually breaking it. 

You were in a hospital gown, so nothing could protect or delay him from cupping your sex with his palm. The heat against you made you worry more than it excited you. But as he slowly ground against you, humming your name and telling you that you were such a good girl, you couldn’t help but respond. Memories of the last time he’d touched you like this flooded your mind. He paid special attention to your clit. Just as before, he rubbed slow, agonizing shapes into the sensitive bud. Still sniffling, your sobs turned to stifled moans. 

“I want you to feel good, sweetheart,” his other hand started to caress your breasts. “You’re going to cum for me, right? You won’t disobey anymore of my orders. Isn’t that right?”

Your body was betraying you. You were wet. Your clit swollen and sensitive. The touches on your breasts made the pooling, quivering arousal between your legs intensify. 

The motions on your clit grew less gentle. The force and speed increased, “Is that understood, soldier?” His voice was still quiet. The slight rasp in his words rubbed and aroused you in the exact same way the roughness on the pads of his fingers did. 

“S-sir, yes sir,” you didn’t want to moan. It was taking all you had not too. The fear. The heat. His voice. His hands. You didn’t know what to do. Your were going crazy. 

He hummed, slightly annoyed but appeased. For a few moments, the finger on your clit stopped. It probed at your entrance instead. Your legs started to close but his voice stopped you, “Open.” 

You obeyed. Your reward was the feeling of a single digit slipping inside of you. It sent horribly pleasant shivers throughout your body. You had fantasized about him penetrating you. Try as you might, you couldn’t stop bringing back those lurid dreams to the forefront of your mind.

“You’re so wet for me, sweetheart,” he sounded pleased. You still refused to open your eyes. You couldn’t see his smile. “You think about me when I was away?” 

He had been watching your face the entire time. Your lovely, expressive face. All your feelings were spelled out clearly on your features. He could read the internal struggle you were having as plainly as he could your heartbeat on the monitor. He knew you felt good. He knew you hated it. Knew that you would hate yourself for being at the mercy of your own nerves. That it was going to eat you up inside. He loved it.

Another finger had slipped inside your silky depths, “Do my fingers feel good?” When you didn’t answer right away he rather roughly shoved them back in, enjoying your cry of pain. 

“Yes sir!” 

Fortunately, or perhaps, unfortunately, the pleasure returned. He was using both hands to manipulate your sex now. One dutifully massaging your clit while the other continued to finger you. “You want me to make you cum?” There was a hint of laughter in his voice. 

Your own was barely a whisper, “Yes sir.” You didn’t want to cum. You didn’t want him touching you. Yet, your body was burning up. You could feel yourself getting close. You knew if you came you would never be able to forgive yourself. 

He was still reading your face. He still loved how upset you were. Loved that you were trying to fight the pleasure and losing. He enjoyed your suffering for a few more minutes, fingers scissoring in and out of you roughly. 

“Cum for me, sweetheart. Right now.” 

The pleasure pulsed in waves. Your voice caught in your throat and your back arched. Your insides constricted around his fingers before he pulled them out. He was openly laughing now, watching your thighs quake. It always pleased him when people followed orders quickly.

When you opened your eyes, still rimmed with tears, the first thing you saw was Jack’s smug face. He slipped his fingers in his mouth, smirking as he tasted you. 

He got up from the bed and turned from you, “Be a good girl, alright?” He left you shivering and panting. As he stepped through the threshold of the door, the last thing he said was your name. He left it hanging in the air and in your ears. 

Your name. Coated in his poison. 

\--  
\--

To say that you didn’t react well to your Commander’s “affections” was an understatement. You totally shut down. Not that it mattered, really. You were holed up in the infirmary for the next few days. Instead of Cao, only Dr. Zeigler attended you. You weren’t in the right headspace to question it. 

Her smile was kind but her eyes full of guilt. She didn’t know what happened to you when Jack visited. She could guess, but she chose not to. Thankfully, he didn’t see you again while you were there. Probably wrapped up in the scandal and the bombing. God knows what else. 

You were released after nine days. You could have gotten out in four, but Dr. Zeigler insisted. It’s all she could do for you. It didn’t make up for it, but it’s _all she could do_. She was convinced of that. Keeping Jack’s toy in an annoying place would make you just that little bit less attractive to him. If only for a few days. 

\--  
You felt well enough to head to the practice range. You had largely stopped yourself from thinking about the night in the infirmary. But, inside the ammunitions storage room, you thought of it for a single second. Then it all flooded back. The human mind was awful in that way. The more you tried to forget or ignore it, the more incessantly it hammered at your mind. 

Inside the storage room, you just broke. Sobbing and collapsing onto the floor. You were thankful no one had seen you go inside. You didn’t think you could ever stop crying. You knew if anyone tried to speak to you, you wouldn’t be able to gather enough energy to even face them. 

As it turned out, your Commander did see you go into the storage room. He followed you and stood outside the door. Though muffled, he could faintly hear it. Hear you crying. Had a good idea as to why, too. And he pitied you.

The Blackwatch Commander leaned against the closed door, arms folding over his chest. Gabriel Reyes was a bad person. He really was. Loved the ‘whole shooting people and seeing the life drain from their eyes’ thing. He didn’t feel guilty when he did it. The pain and death he had caused didn’t weigh heavy on his conscious. On the contrary, he was quite proud. 

But he wasn’t like Jack Morrison. Not quite. He loved crushing people and their hopes under his heel as much as the next bastard, but he didn’t get off on it the way Morrison did. He was content to shoot someone. Maybe it killed them, maybe it didn’t. Morrison though, he had a compulsive need to dig his fingers into the bullet holes. It wasn’t enough for someone to cry out, they had to scream and beg. 

He was still friends with Jack. As close as either of them get to having a best friend. They would fight and argue and even genuinely try to kill each at times. But if one needed to hide a body, the other would have a shovel ready without so much a word. So, while the Blackwatch Commander pitied you, he was still allied with your monster. Should Morrison offer you to him, as he’d done with so many toys of his in the past, Reyes wouldn’t think twice about accepting. It was simply the way of things. 

Reyes enjoyed kicking people while they were down. Not because their pain turned him on, but rather because it was funny. He was known to be sarcastic, crude, and gave absolutely no fucks about anything. But, he did give everyone _one_. 

One moment of weakness. One moment where he wouldn’t spit insults in their face. Wouldn’t laugh at them for crying. Wouldn’t even crack a joke at their expense. Just one. Only one. And not a single person on Earth would ever know it. 

Maybe it was because he was the Blackwatch Commander. The kinds of things Blackwatch had to do weren’t pretty. It was hard to make use of broken men. While Blackwatch needed tough, it couldn’t afford to have brittle. Reyes had given every single person under his command “one”. Just one moment to break and piece themselves back together. 

Sometimes that “one” was a whole night drinking. Listening to some young kid, freshly scraped off the bootheel of a shit gang, cry and ramble in a drunken stupor as he recounted the sad, fucked up life that landed him there in the first place. Sometimes it was merely saying nothing while a man, half of what he once was, tore apart his bedroom in a fit of rage and anguish. Screaming, breaking things, and generally throwing a tantrum until he wore himself out. 

This was your “one”. Your breakdown in the small munitions closet near the weapons workshop. Gabriel would guard the door. Anyone looking to get in would be told to fuck off. What reason? Didn’t matter. People expected Gabriel to an unreasonable asshole. So, for the next forty five minutes, Gabriel was an unreasonable asshole. Recruits, Torbjorn, everyone was turned away. Didn’t matter who or why. 

You would never know this though. You were too absorbed in your breaking. Then slowly, in the dark quiet of that room stocked full of bullets and shells, you would piece yourself back together as best as you could.

There would be cracks and hairline fractures. But, you could stand up and function. You could go out into the hall, eyes puffy and face still red. You would find no one there. No one else would ever know about your breaking. You would never know who stood with his back against that door. He would never ask for gratitude. Never, under any circumstances, bring it up. Wouldn’t so much as look at you different the next time he saw you. 

That was your “one”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this! I hope you enjoyed it all the same! I've been writing smut while listening to darkwave and synthwave. It's having... Pavlovian effects. 
> 
> -Until the next!


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